I'm The Worst Person In The World
by famousfirstwords95
Summary: That awkward moment when the person you thought was the worst is actually the best ever...FINCHEL AU. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

***assumes anyone's actually reading this* HI GUYS! So here's the deal - for a long time I've been hesitant to get back in to writing Finchel fanfiction (I won't elaborate on the reasons why, I'm sure you can well imagine). But lately I've come to realize that fanficion is this alternate world where Finn and Rachel can continue to thrive as long as we chose to give them life through our creative efforts. I recently heard a few people talking about doing a Finchel fanfic book club (which honestly sounds like my dream come true) and it got me thinking maybe there are still those of us out there who love this couple as much as I do. With that said...I'm not sure how people will respond to this story, or if anyone will respond at all. Regardless it's been therapeutic for me to dabble in this world in which T-Rex and the Jew are both very much alive and are allowed to have sex with their clothes off.**

 **Anyway, sorry for the rambling. This first chapter is pretty lightweight, but shit's about to get real fast. Also please note the M rating (sorry kids!).**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own it.**

* * *

"You missed a spot."

The voice registers somewhere in the back of his head. Not even the Journey song blaring through his headphones is enough to drown out her condescending tone as she berates him for not thoroughly disinfecting the treadmill he's just vacated. Really, he's done everything short of licking the machine clean with his tongue and it's still apparently not up to her princess standards. He doesn't even have to turn around to know she's probably standing there with her hands on her tight little hips, looking at him like even the thought of using a treadmill he's just run several miles on is the most repulsive thing she's ever fathomed in her entire pretentious life. It's not _his_ fault she shows up every evening during peak hours when the gym is so crowded that all the cardio machines have a waiting list.

 _Not my fucking problem, sweetheart_ , he thinks before turning around to tell her out loud. He's seen her here before. Even though she's tiny, she's sort of hard to miss, and he's noticed the way she always struts around in those shorts with her nose in the air like she's the queen of the fucking universe and everyone else just lives in it.

"Excuse me, but do you mind?" her grating voice harasses him again. "There's only a thirty minute time limit, you know."

He smirks, knowing he purposely sprinted an extra half mile when he saw her waiting impatiently for him to vacate the machine. Now he can tell by the hostility in her tone that she's royally pissed at him. And he's fucking _fine_ with it.

"I doubt you're aware of this, princess," he turns around, "but breaking a sweat is a bodily function that comes naturally to those of us who actually know how to bust our asses in the gym."

That's sort of a cheap shot (he's seen enough of this girl to know she's a fucking beast where her workouts are concerned) but he takes it anyway, wanting to get under her skin even more.

Her big eyes narrow in on him. He can feel her dislike seeping through every pore in her body, and she'd better believe the feeling is mutual. "Well let me tell you something I sincerely doubt _you're_ aware of," she says in that same biting tone that continues to grate on his nerves. "People who sweat like baboons should sufficiently clean up after themselves. It's just proper gym etiquette, not to mention common decency in the civilized world, which I'm aware you are most certainly _not_ a member of."

God, this girl is fucking batty as shit. He's had about enough of it. Well, almost enough...he could probably take a little bit more of it, to be honest. She's sort of fun to mess with, and lord knows she has it coming.

"Fine," he concedes. He turns toward the treadmill, and, using his thumb and forefinger, pretends to flick a small speck of dust away as if it's the only thing tainting the otherwise spotless machine. He's knows it's a dick thing to do, but honestly, he'd rather she suck it up and use a treadmill stained with his sweat than spend another second trying to meet her ridiculously high standards. He already wiped the thing down with a rag, anyway. If that's not enough for her she can bring in the Red Cross to sterilize it if she wants to. He's fucking _done_.

"Enjoy your workout, princess," he says, flashing her another contemptuous smirk before leaving her with her pouty mouth agape, cheeks flaming with anger as he successfully renders her speechless. No doubt he's one of the first ever to do such a thing.

He's still a little worked up when he enters the weight room, meeting up with his friend Puck.

"Dude, what took you so long? I thought we were gonna lift."

"Sorry man," Finn says. "I got held up."

Puck raises an eyebrow at him. "Yeah dude, I know. I saw you talking to that little brunette piece. You get her number?"

Finn recoils in disgust. "Fuck no, man. That girl's annoying as shit. Talk about a pain in the ass."

"Yeah, so? You gonna fuck her, or what?"

"Dude! I said _no_. Girls like that annoy the shit out of me."

"Jesus, calm down, Finnessa," Puck says, grabbing a set of weights. "Maybe I'll take her for a test drive. If she's that annoying she's probably also a beast in the sack. Not to mention, she's kinda hot."

Finn rolls his eyes, just wanting to get off the subject of this chick, which is proving to be a difficult task with her pint-sized body reflecting in the mirror as she stretches on a mat nearby. Apparently she'd rather nix her workout altogether than use a treadmill that's been dirtied with his sweat and grime. _Suit yourself_ , he thinks, figuring she must be as stubborn as she is dramatic and insane.

As for Puck thinking she's hot...well, shit, Puck thinks ice cubes are hot. Besides, he can fucking have her if he wants her. All Finn sees when he looks at her is an attitude and a nose.

"Whatever, dude. Can we please finish this workout? I need to head back to the office for a couple hours." Finn and Puck are both sports agents at Sylvester & Shuester, one of the most prestigious agencies in New York. It's draft season and Finn's been busting his ass trying to negotiate a contract for one of the hottest quarterbacks in the NFL, Sam Evans. He's been stressed as hell lately and exercise is one of the few outlets that help him blow off a little steam.

At least you'd _think_ it would help.

* * *

"Douchebag," she curses under her breath. After the cocky giant refused to wipe his sweat off the treadmill (or the smirk off his face) she's seriously wishing she'd signed up for one of those boxing classes her friend Blaine is always trying to get her to join in on. The nerve of that guy, not adhering to simple gym etiquette when she'd asked him so politely.

Ok maybe she wasn't _super_ polite, but if he hadn't spent an extra ten minutes hogging the machine she'd so _diligently_ reserved for herself she wouldn't have been in such a foul mood to begin with. So since their little quarrel ate up most of her thirty minute time slot, and her being far too stubborn (and sanitary) to use a treadmill he's left dripping with both his arrogance and his sweat, she decides to just stretch out and do some yoga on the floor.

She can see him and his mohawk-headed friend doing some heavy lifting on the other end of the gym. She makes sure to turn her back to both of them, not wanting to make eye contact with the seven-foot-tall jerk as he works out with dumbbells that are probably smarter than he is.

She's sitting in lotus position with her eyes closed when a husky, yet slightly timid voice says, "Excuse me…"

Her eyes snap open and she looks up to see she's sitting in the shadow of the giant ape man himself. She's taken aback by his demeanor, which has softened considerably, the overconfidence he taunted her with before now replaced by this half-smile that's almost a little bit...well, no, never mind. _Anyway_ , she straightens her back, maintaining an air of aloofness as she answers, "Yes?"

"I'm sorry to bother you again. I just wanted to apologize for my behavior before. If I ruined your workout, I'm sorry."

"You didn't _ruin_ my workout," she says defiantly.

She sees him roll his eyes a bit. "Well, whatever. If I did, I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted. Now if you don't mind, I'm in the middle of-"

"Well hello there, Finn Hudson," a tall Latina dressed in multi-colored yoga pants struts right up to him, boldly laying a hand on his shoulder and unabashedly interrupting Rachel mid-sentence.

 _Finn_. So the giant had a name. It sounded more like a name for a goldfish than a human, but hey, not her problem.

"Uh, hey Santana," he says, clearly unnerved by her presence.

"Why didn't you text me last night, you fetus-faced love doctor?"

"Yeah sorry, I just...look, can we talk about this later? I'll call you."

The full-figured Latina is clearly put off by his words. Evidently Rachel is just one of _several_ women this guy has alienated today. "What's the matter Finnessa, am I no longer your Tuesday night booty call?" She glances down at Rachel, acknowledging her for the first time. "What, is _she_ your new Tuesday night?"

"No! She's not...I don't even…" Finn stumbles over his words, his eyes darting from one woman to the other. Meanwhile, Rachel is on her feet, actively removing herself from this embarrassing, not to mention downright _gross_ conversation she's been involuntarily subjected to.

"I'm sorry for the confusion, _Santana_ , but I am most definitely _not_ his Tuesday night booty call, or his any-night-of-the-week- _anything_ for that matter. Now if you'll excuse me." She promptly rolls up her yoga mat and stalks off with her nose in the air, briefly making eye contact with Finn, who's red in the face. She's sure he doesn't miss the triumphant smirk that pulls at the corners of her mouth as she walks away.

On her way to the locker room she runs into a blonde-haired girl who looks vaguely familiar. Rachel's pretty sure she took a boot camp class of hers once, and her name is either Puppy or Kitty or something like that.

"Hey," the blonde girl says, "were you just talking to Hudson?"

"You mean the tall guy?" Rachel acknowledges him with an eye roll. "Yeah, just for a second. He seems like kind of a jerk, to be honest."

"Oh, trust me, he is. I went out with him once and he never called me again. I was just going to advise you to _stay the hell away_."

"Well thank you for the warning but believe me I have no intention of getting any closer than I have already. Men like him aren't worth the aggravation anyway."

"Amen, sister. My name's Kitty, by the way. Hope to see you in my kickboxing class again soon."

Rachel smiles, introducing herself to the blonde woman before making her way to the locker room. She wonders how many more people will caution her against the antics of _Finn Hudson_ before she finally exits the gym.

* * *

"But there must be some mistake," Finn argues with the woman behind the desk. He's just come in for his evening workout, per usual, and now the manager's telling him he's been temporarily banned from the gym.

 _WTF?_

"I'm sorry Mr. Hudson, but we've received some complaints."

"From who?" he demands.

"I'll keep that confidential, but it's come to my attention that you've been harassing some of our female members. We've decided to suspend your account for one week. Hopefully you can resolve your issues within this time period."

Finn sighs in exasperation, "Unbelievable. Well, ya know what, there are plenty of other gyms in this area. How 'bout I just cancel my membership?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but that would be in breach of the year-long contract you currently have with us."

Finn knows a thing or two about contracts being a sports agent and all, so he's definitely fighting a losing battle. "Fine," he relents. He's still pissed as hell, but he knows he's screwed, and throwing a fit will only get him banned for life instead of just this one week.

As he storms out the door, still dressed in his shirt and tie from the office, he finds himself racking his brain over who could've badmouthed him so fucking badly that it got him suspended from the gym.

And then it dawns on him.

Tiny little brunette with the big nose, big eyes...and big _mouth_. Of-fucking-course it was her. He saw the way she looked when Santana had confronted him yesterday. He'd only been trying to _apologize_ for being sort of a dick to her (even though it was more her fault than it was his) but she just had to have the last laugh, didn't she? She couldn't have let him explain how Santana was his ex who was a wee bit on the crazy side, and who only called _him_ on Tuesday nights when she was feeling conflicted over being a lesbian, and thought that sleeping with a guy might help 'set her straight' or whatever. Little Miss Perfect, however, had probably pegged him for a man-whore and a womanizer and had gone crying to the manager about it.

She'd probably been dead set on getting him perma-banned from every gym in New York City. Little did she know, her petty efforts had only gotten him out of her hair for one measly week.

 _Just you wait, Princess,_ he thinks to himself as he's hailing a cab.

He'll get her for this. She can bet her tight little ass about that.

* * *

The week goes by quickly. He uses his free evenings to his advantage, either catching up on work or joining Puck in a game of touch football with some of the guys from the office. He returns to the gym on Thursday evening feeling surprisingly refreshed, yet no less eager to annoy the shit out of Little Miss Perfect.

He's pretty sure Puck is even more determined to fuck with her than he is. "Dude, we have _got_ to put this chick in her place. Some of the hottest girls in the city work out at this gym and some uppity little snob is trying to tarnish your rep with all of them. If she keeps running her mouth you could wind up never banging another yoga-toned ass again in your life."

Finn thinks Puck is being a tad overdramatic, but still, he has a point. The first thing he does is hop on the treadmill he knows is her favorite. It's the one right in front of the window that has a gorgeous view of the city. Knowing she usually reserves that particular machine for around five-thirty in the evening he makes sure to take a nice long jog, glancing over his shoulder periodically to see if she's back there glaring at him for cutting into her time. But as the minutes wear on and there's still no sign of her, he begins to wonder if she even showed up at all today.

He finally hops off the treadmill, taking a quick scan of the gym floor, hoping to spot the tiny brunette. Still no sign of her. Something _does_ catch his eye, though, and it's the sight of a woman in an impossibly short skirt walking toward the locker rooms. Her back is turned so he can't see her face, but _dayum_. Her legs are positively beautiful and he can feel his dick coming to life at the thought of behind buried in between them.

"Looking for your next victim, Frankenstein?" a voice that's all too familiar interrupts his wicked thoughts, effectively killing his buzz.

"What do you want, Kitty?" he sighs.

"Oh nothing. Just for your gangly ass to disappear."

Finn rolls his eyes. When are these chicks going to give it up and realize he's _not fucking going anywhere_. "Sorry, Pussy-I mean Kitty, but you're stuck with me another day. And since there's no making _you_ disappear, why don't you tell me the name of that girl who just walked into the locker room?"

"You mean the one in the skirt?"

Finn almost licks his lips at the thought of her. "Yep."

"Oh don't even bother with her, bonehead. She already told me she'd rather run the Boston Marathon in heels than waste a minute on you."

"Wait, what?...She-she told you that?"

"Yep," she says with a satisfied grin. "Better luck next time, man whore."

She walks off, leaving Finn dumbfounded. _Fucking hell!_ Is it possible that little brunette midget badmouthed him to literally _every_ woman in the gym? That certainly appears to be the case. If only she were here today, he'd give her a piece of his-

"Excuse me, do you mind?"

That voice is like nails on a chalkboard, he doesn't even have to look down to know who's there pestering the shit out of him.

"Well, look who it is?" he practically sneers, his eyes meeting those big chocolatey brown saucers that are already swirling with dislike for him.

"Yes, it's me, whatever," she says with irritation. "Now would you mind moving aside, please? You're blocking the door."

He admits to feeling a bit like a doofus when he realizes he is in fact standing right in front of a door leading to one of the exercise classrooms. He quickly moves out of the way, the brunette flashing him a fake smile before entering the room. She has her yoga mat tucked under her arm, as does everyone else in the room.

 _What the hell_ , he thinks to himself before walking in right behind her. He's never done yoga in his life, and it might kill him for all he knows, but his desire to fuck with the uptight little diva hasn't wavered, so he figures he'll give it a go.

He doesn't have a mat of course, so he sits on the floor directly behind her. She appears to sense his presence immediately, glancing over her shoulder at him, clearly wondering what the hell he's even doing here.

"Hi," he says, a big shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

"Hello," she responds, feigning indifference.

"Bet you weren't expecting to see me here, were you?"

"Well, given that this is an advanced yoga class, I'd have to say, no, I was not."

"Well Miss Smarty Pants, maybe you shouldn't make so many assumptions about other people."

"And what _assumptions_ would those be?"

"Oh, don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about."

She nearly turns her whole body around to look at him, her face flushed with irritation. "Look, _Finn_. If I wanted to know anything more about you all I'd have to do is speak to one of your lady friends. It appears you've got one for every day of the week. Although I don't know what on _earth_ you gives you the impression that I'm even faintly interested to begin with."

He can see he's succeeded in getting under her skin, so he just sits there smirking at her like a little boy while they wait for class to begin. Just then a shaggy-haired guy with a medium build approaches her. His yoga mat is jammed under his arm and he looks a bit flustered.

"Rachel!"

"Oh, Jesse, hey!" she says brightly. "I'm so glad you could make it."

She moves over a bit so the Jesse dude can sit next to her. Finn finds himself oddly jealous of the warm smile that brightens her face when she sees a person she actually _likes_.

Oh well. At least he finally knows her name. _Rachel_. Rachel. The name suits her, he guesses, although he can think of a few other names that would suit her a lot better.

He hears Jesse guy mention something about a play, which he gathers is not like a football play, but more like one of those things you go see in a theatre that are sort of like movies only boring. His eavesdropping is cut short when the instructor announces it's time for class to begin.

He's never experienced more physical discomfort in his entire life. Not to mention he makes a complete ass out of himself in the hour he spends holding excruciatingly awkward poses, nearly falling flat on his face a number of times. He's certain his body was never meant to bend this way and if he comes out of this alive he's planning on beating the shit out of whoever invented yoga.

The only way he manages to get through the entire class without dying is by picturing the legs on that girl he saw walking toward the locker rooms earlier on. If only he'd seen her face or gotten her name... _damn_. He probably would've kicked himself right then and there if he hadn't looked up and caught a glimpse of Rachel's ass straining against the taut fabric of her shorts.

Ok, ok, so the Rachel girl is maybe sorta hot. It's more of a sneaky kind of hot, but still...her ass in those shorts is not _torture_ to look at or anything. Not to mention she's probably bendy as fuck from all the yoga.

 _Oh shit_. She definitely just caught him checking out her ass. He wonders if that Jesse guy is her boyfriend. If so, will he try to beat him up after class?

"Hey," she hisses at him through gritted teeth. "Stop. Looking. At. Me."

"I wasn't," he says lamely.

"You were. You _are_. And it's gross. Please stop it." She turns away from him, attempting to resume focusing intently on her downward dog, but he can tell she's still conscious of him looming behind her.

He wants to flat-out yell at her to get the hell over herself, but figures that wouldn't be a very Zen-like thing for him to do during a yoga class. Really, though. It's not like he'd even bother staring at her ass if it were anywhere else but right in front of his goddamn face. Lord knows he's seen better. He once hooked up with a Victoria's Secret model, for fuck's sake.

It's around this time that he decides to _really_ start messing with her like he'd originally planned. It's the last few minutes of class, and the instructor is leading everyone through a guided meditation. The whole room is silent, focusing on their breathing, when Finn starts mumbling a bunch of gibberish. He's not even sure of all the nonsense he's uttering, something about Jesus, grilled cheese, and a baby named Drizzle. His eyes are closed but he's sure everyone in the room is looking at him like he's a basket case, and he knows Rachel wants to kill him.

As soon as class is over he opens his eyes. Rachel is so steamed she won't even look at him and he's pretty sure that Jesse kid is shooting him daggers as well. Meanwhile the whole room is eyeing him curiously as they gather up their things, some of them visibly weirded out while others just look mildly amused. He hears Rachel mutter something to Jesse about wanting to leave before he embarrasses her any further. Before she can do so, however, Finn moves swiftly toward to door, but doesn't exit before calling out, "Thanks for inviting me to do yoga with you, Rachel! I'm sure some of those moves will come in handy next time we're alone together."

He then darts out the door before she has a chance to respond.

* * *

The next day at his office he's buried in work when his secretary buzzes him on the intercom. "Mr. Hudson? There's a Ms. Berry here to see you."

 _Berry?_ It seems he'd remember a name like that, but it doesn't ring a bell. "Send her in," he says, releasing the button on the intercom.

Moments later his door is practically thrown open before none other than Rachel storms into his office. "Hello," she says, hostility in her tone.

"Uh...hi," he says, looking up at her in utter confusion.

"We need to talk. Well, _I_ need to talk. You need to listen."

"Uh, ok...how did you even-"

"Ever heard of Google? I typed in the word 'Douchebag' and your name and address popped right up."

Finn relaxes back in his chair, her feistiness intriguing him, making him feel more confident on his own turf now that the initial shock of her unanticipated arrival has passed. "I'm really not accustomed to hearing that type of language in my office, Ms. Berry."

Truth be told he's been called worse things in the past hour by his own clients, particularly Sam Evans, who will probably be calling him again any minute threatening to find a new agent if Finn doesn't get his shit together fast.

Rachel rolls her eyes in disgust, her arms folded tightly across her chest. "Oh please, I'm just trying to speak your language. Now look, the only reason I'm even here is to discuss your own impish behavior."

"And what would you be referring to, Ms. Berry?"

"Oh please," she huffs, "You know exactly what I'm talking about. You _embarrassed_ me in a manner that was both deliberate and uncalled for. You may live in a world where carrying on like an ape is acceptable behavior, but some of us live in a _civilized_ world and would prefer not to be associated with your kind."

Finn raises his eyebrows at that, her remarks only further emphasizing the contemptuous smirk that's sure to be permanently etched into his facial features by the time this encounter is through. "Well, _pardon me_ , sweetheart. I guess some people are just too far up their own ass to realize those _kumbaya_ yogis were a bunch of blissed-out flakes. You really think any of them cared that much? Then again, what am I saying? Of _course_ you think that since it's obvious you're so damn stuck on yourself."

Her jaw tightens, hands on her tiny little skirt-clad hips as her eyes narrow in on him. "Wow, you've really got me pegged, haven't you? You've got some nerve, considering you know absolutely _nothing_ about me. If you did you'd realize my reputation around this city happens to matter a great deal."

"Yeah, I'll bet it does," he retorts cynically. "Anyway, Berry, I've got a shit load of things I was busy with before you barged in on me. So if you don't mind." He cocks his head toward the door, inviting her to show herself out. If he's being honest, he wouldn't be opposed to her sticking around a bit longer. He's sort of enjoy their hostile banter, in a weird way, and that blouse and skirt she's wearing along with the way her bottom lip juts out as she grows to despise him more and more...well, it just isn't _that_ _bad_ to look at or anything.

"It would be my great pleasure to leave, as soon as I can be assured there won't be any of your petty shenanigans at the gym this evening."

He shrugs. "Sorry, babe. Considering I'm an _ape_ , as you called me, I can't exactly be held accountable for my actions."

She scowls, "God, Finn, _what_ is your problem with me?"

"I could ask you the same thing, _Rachel Berry_ ," he says evenly. "Besides, maybe you should join a different gym, or go do yoga on a mountain somewhere if you find me this intolerable."

As soon as he says the words he's struck by how his emotions contradict them. He doesn't exactly _want_ her to go to another gym, if he's being honest. It's most likely only because messing with her in this way has proven to be more fun than he'd anticipated it would be.

"Oh, you'd like _that_ , wouldn't you?"

No...No, he seriously wouldn't.

The way she stares him down for the next minute makes his heart pound inexplicably. He's suddenly conscious of not wanting the effect she's having on him to cause any visible cracks in the cocky exterior he's failed to waver from so far. His dick has apparently received the memo as well, the heat from this strange fire she's managed to spark within him now making him throb with arousal, causing him to strain uncomfortably against his pants. He won't be standing up from his desk anytime soon, that's for damn sure.

"Did you hear what I said, Hudson?" she demands, stirring him from his momentary daze. Her hands are now resting on his desk as she leans slightly over it, her face alight with irritation. It's as if she's trying to make him even crazier.

" _Of course_ I heard you, Berry," he lies. "I'm sure all of Manhattan hears you every time you open your mouth to speak."

She gets a look on her face that might have intrigued him had he not been quite literally squirming in his chair, practically gritting his teeth to stave off his near _painful_ hard on that needs his attention STAT. She's got him all worked up and she doesn't even know it. He doesn't even know _why_ , for fuck's sake. Is he sweating? He feels like he's sweating bullets right now. "Now if you don't mind," he says with as much composure as he can manage, "I'm sure my secretary can show you out. I really do have a shit ton of work to get to."

Their eyes remain locked for another intense moment, Finn chomping at the bit, Rachel stubbornly not wanting to leave without feeling like she's worn him down at least a little bit.

"Look, I'll never show my face in another yoga class again," he finally blurts out. "I promise."

He knows it's not entirely what she wants to hear but it's enough to send her on her way with a feeling of minor accomplishment. "Fine," she relents, rolling her eyes before backing away from his desk. She goes to the door, stopping to look at him before exiting through it. "I still don't understand what your problem is with me," she says, her voice a bit more vulnerable than he's used to hearing.

Finn has a problem. A big, hard, _raging_ problem that he can't exactly put into words right now. He smirks through his aching arousal, grabbing a loose piece of paper off his desk before crumpling it into a ball and tossing it across the room into the wastebasket as if it's a game winning point. "Enjoy the rest of your day, sweetheart."

Her eyes linger on his another moment, irritation and disgust swirling in their depths. She undoubtedly likes him even less than when she first barged into his office and the door slamming behind her is more or less symbolic of her hand striking him across the face.

As soon as he's alone the image of Rachel in her tight skirt stalking out the door flashes in his mind, connecting it with a very similar image that captivated him yesterday at the gym. "Shit," he utters as it dawns on him that those two women are one and the same.

So much for a solid day's work…

* * *

 **TBC...**


	2. Undiscovered

**Hey guys! Thank you so so much for the positive response! Your feedback is making me want to crank this baby out like a madwoman, so keep it coming!**

 **Sorry for the short update. I promise the next one will make up for it ;)**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own it**

* * *

Finn feels weirdly anxious as he enters the gym with Puck that evening. He can hardly focus on his workout, seizing every opportunity to scan the crowded floor in search of the little brunette. He's certain she'll show up. She's far too stubborn to let him think he's gotten under skin even a little bit. What he's _not_ so certain of is what his reaction to seeing her again is going to be. He still can't believe how aroused she'd made him today and he wants to hide his face in his embarrassment when he thinks of how he told his secretary to hold his calls, locking his office door after Rachel left so he could go to work on his insanely hard boner, the release nearly bringing him to his knees.

"What the fuck's with you today?" Puck asks.

"Nothing, man," Finn lies. "Long day at work."

"Is Evans still riding your ass?"

Finn sighs, "Yep. He says he won't settle for anything less six million. He's gonna leave my ass in the gutter if I can't negotiate something soon."

"Dude, you _cannot_ let that happen," Puck scolds. "If he leaves Sylvester  & Shuester it'll be one of the biggest blows the agency has ever seen."

"I know, man, I know," Finn says wearily.

"Dude! I'm telling you. If you lose Evans I can guarantee your job'll be on the line. You'd better get your shit together fast."

" _Fuck_ dude!" Finn snaps. "You don't think I know I'm in deep shit? It's all I thought about all fucking day."

He knows that's hardly the case, in fact he literally had to force himself to think about work at all after Rachel left his office. Just as some of those Rachel-themed thoughts begin clouding his mind, he finally spots her over on the other side of the gym. His heart starts pounding at the sight of her, and it's as if he literally can't stop from himself from moving towards her, even though she'll probably spit in his face when she sees him. After ditching a confused Puck without so much as an explanation he makes a beeline across the gym floor.

She's stretching on a mat, her long legs fully extended as she bends to touch the floor. _Fucking hell_. He seriously needs to be inside this girl, just to get it out of his system. She shifts positions and notices him approaching her, irritation possessing her immediately, just as he figured it would.

"Hey," he says. He's pretty sure he just waved, _what a fucking tool_.

"Hi," she responds flatly.

"So...uh...how are you?" he stammers nervously, already feeling his dick react to being in her proximity.

"I'm fine, Finn. Not much has changed since you threw me out of your office."

"Right...yeah, about that - I want to apologize. I've been under a lot of stress at work lately and you just caught me at a bad time. I shouldn't have been such a jerk to you. I'm sorry."

She's eyeing him skeptically, although his words appear to have lowered her defenses slightly. She finally gives in reluctantly, sighing in minor defeat. "I guess I owe you an apology too. I shouldn't have confronted you at your office like that. It was a little much."

"Don't mention it," he says, feeling more confident than before. "In fact - you're welcome to come back whenever you'd like. I'd love to show you around...and I promise to be more, um, _polite_ next time."

His words are ripe with flirtation. She's probably hoping he blinked and missed the blush that colors her cheeks as she nervously averts his eyes, _but nope_ , he caught it.

Recovering most of the icy composure that escaped her momentarily, she raises her head to meet his gaze, speaking with full confidence, "Well, I sure do appreciate your hospitality, Finn. I don't doubt you've extended a similar invitation to half the women in this gym."

"Wait, what?" he asks, confused.

"As flattered as I am, I have no intention of being one of your lunch hour conquests. I'm sure I'd be just another in a long line of fools."

"No, that's not what I-" ( _Yeah it is_ ) "I mean I didn't mean-" ( _Yeah he did)_

"Now if you'll excuse me, I have a kickboxing class I'm late for," she interrupts him. "I'm looking forward to actually getting a full workout in without your annoying interference. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

Before he can protest she turns on her heels and stalks off with her nose in the air. He watches her disappear inside the exercise classroom just before his eyes fall on Kitty, who's shooting him a "drop dead" glare. Clearly enjoying the ego-bruised pout that's currently stupefying his face, she flashes him a smirk before shutting the classroom door.

He's pretty sure he's never been shot down _that_ badly. Suddenly it feels like there's a neon sign flashing the word "FAIL" right above his head as the entire gym gathers around to mock and ridicule his epic douchebaggery. No one's really watching or giving a shit, however, so he does his best to shake off the rejection, deciding to cut his workout short for the day. He just hopes his knuckles aren't dragging on the ground as he makes what feels like the walk of shame toward the exit door.

* * *

"Ugh!" Rachel grunts as her boxing glove-clad fist makes contact with the punching bag. If only the bag were about three feet taller and had a face as crude and obnoxious as Finn Hudson's she'd probably have the stuffing flying out of it by now. The nerve of that man, thinking he could just put the moves on her, flash her that charming half-smile of his and have her swooning in no time.

Another primal sound escapes her as her high kick destroys what's she's imagining to be the balls of the arrogant man-giant. Truth be told, she sort of feels like she ought to be kicking _herself_ instead. The fact that he saw her blushing under his flirtatious gaze for even a second makes her want to scream. Even more unnerving is the way certain parts of her had tingled so unexpectedly she'd had to look down at the floor to avoid him sensing any trace of it in her face.

" _Ugh!"_

Okay, okay, so maybe her "parts" have been a little tingly ever since confronting him at his office that afternoon. She attributes it to nothing other than the hard up-ness she's been feeling lately, what with her play being in it's final rehearsals before opening at the Mckinley Theatre, the success of it pretty much riding entirely on her shoulders (no pressure there). She nearly had a moment of weakness the other night where she _almost_ gave into Jesse's advances, her co-star clearly wanting to make their on-stage romance a real-life thing, despite her only really liking him in a platonic way.

Thank God for Kitty's boxing class for helping her channel all this misplaced energy into a good workout instead of into something (or _someone_ ) else.

Yep, that's clearly all she needs. A good... _workout_.

* * *

Finn takes another gulp from his beer, hoping to get as good of a buzz going as he can. He and Puck along with a couple other guys from the agency are having drinks at Warbler's, their usual Friday night hangout. Puck practically had to drag him to the bar, as Finn would've much preferred staying cooped up alone in his apartment, not really in the mood socializing.

Now that he's out, though, he figures a few drinks will help erase the mindfuck he's under courtesy of a miniature brunette named _Rachel Barbra Berry_. He discovered her full name upon Googling her the minute he got home, unable to stave off his erection as his eyes raked over the photos she had public on her Facebook page. Had his research been more studious he might've noted a few facts about her professional life, but honestly he just wanted to see as much of her face as the internet had to offer (spoken like a true cyber stalker, indeed).

"Dude! You under hypnosis or something?" Puck asks before jabbing him in the shoulder.

"I'm _fine_ , dude," Finn insists, feeling particularly irritable. "Just leave me alone, would you?"

Puck makes some crack about Finn being on his period, meanwhile his younger brother Jake has his eyes set on a group of attractive young women. "Well, I don't know what's up Finnessa's vag tonight, but I'm ready to get my game on with these ladies across the bar. I'm pretty sure the blonde one just winked at me."

"Not so fast, little brother," Puck says, motioning for Jake to remain seated. "We're letting our boy Finn have first dibs on the hotties tonight."

"Huh?" Finn asks.

"Dude, you've been a total flake all day today, and it's annoying the shit out of me. If you don't score with a chick tonight I'm afraid you're gonna turn into one."

"Knock it off, man, I'm really not in the mood."

" _You_ knock it off, shit head, and take these panty-droppers over to that fine flock of hunnies," Puck insists, handing Finn three shot glasses full of something that's sure to lower the inhibitions of anyone who comes in contact with it.

Finn sighs, deciding to just go for it. At least it'll help get his mind off Rachel, and maybe make him feel like somewhat of a stud again. "Fine, dude. Whatever'll get you off my back," he says, reluctantly taking the shots from Puck.

"Go get 'em, champ," Puck pats him on the back.

Before Finn's even out of his seat, his friend Ryder remarks, "Hey, isn't that Sam Evans?"

Finn nearly chokes on his own spit as his head snaps toward the door, where, sure enough, Sam Evans has just entered the crowded bar, a burly security guard in tow. " _Fuck_ ," he curses, suddenly wishing he could snap his fingers and be any place else in the world but here. He's been dodging Sam's calls all day, knowing there'd be hell to pay for it later, but feeling too drained and preoccupied to tackle the demands of his most prestigious client. There's no turning back now, though, the blonde quarterback having already spotted his agent from across the room, despite Finn's redundant efforts to hide his large frame from plain sight. He quickly tosses back one of the shots intended for the women just as Sam and his bodyguard approach him.

"Hudson! What gives, bro?"

"Good to see you, Evans," Finn says, extending his hand out to shake Sam's, a phony smile plastered across his face. "Didn't expect to see you around this dive tonight."

"Yeah, well, a little bird told me this was your local watering hole."

Finn quickly shoots a glare over at Puck and the guys.

"So, what's the deal?" Sam continues. "I thought you said I'd have a contract by the end of the month."

"Sorry, man, it's just taken a little longer than I expected. I'm doing what I can, but it's a bitch trying to negotiate with all these cheap bastards from the NFL. I hope you can understand."

Sam scoffs, "Dude, _I_ can understand it. But you can bet your ass my wife sure won't. She's been chomping at the bit waiting for me to sign on a dotted line."

Finn already knows _that_ to be the case. Sam's wife (Toyota or Mercedes, or whatever her name is) already reamed him out twice this week, telling him to get his lazy act together before her husband finds another agent who can. He's quite accustomed to his clients' wives chewing him out on the daily; just another perk of the job.

"Look, Sam, you can assure your wife that I'll have everything set by the end of next week. I know how important this is to you both and I just want to make sure and squeeze as much money out of these suckers as I possibly can."

Finn's words seem to reassure Sam sufficiently enough, at least for now. "I'm counting on you, Hudson," he warns. "Don't let me down."

"I won't," he says, the effects of the alcohol now really setting in. His head feels foggy as he fists bumps with Sam, but he's just relieved that the quarterback and his entourage appear to be heading on their way.

As he turns to leave, Sam pauses and says, "Shit, I almost forgot." He fishes what appears to be a white envelope out of his pocket before offering it to Finn.

"Oh, uh...thanks," Finn slurs, taking whatever it is from Sam's hand.

"Look, I know it's probably not your cup of tea but my wife's in this new play that's gonna be opening at the Mckinley Theatre this Tuesday. It's a musical so there's singing and all that. It'd be cool if you could come."

"Oh yeah, sure thing, man," Finn answers, too buzzed to know what he's actually agreeing to. "I'll be there."

Sam smiles, "Great. I'll catch you on the flip side, bro."

Finn nods goodbye, the action making his head spin. With Sam finally gone, he scans the bar in search of his friends. They've all deserted him apparently, the two Puckerman brothers looking mighty cozy with the group of women Finn had almost gone up to just before Sam walked in.

 _Fuck it_. He's drunk, and doesn't really feel like meeting anybody anyway. Once again he scans the crowded room, his eyes catching plenty of women he'd normally be buying drinks for right now, but all he can think of is Rachel, and the things he'd do to her if she were here. If only she didn't loathe his very existence... _God_. In what twisted universe is he the type of guy who carries on in this way? He just needs to go home, sober up, and sleep off this weird spell he's under. He's sure he won't recall ever giving two shits about Rachel when he wakes up in the morning.

At least he's _pretty_ sure...

* * *

By the time Monday rolls around he's feeling oddly rejuvenated, having spent the weekend catching up on work. If things continue to go his way he might even have a kickass contract all set and ready for Sam Evans to sign before the end of the week.

His buzz is killed around lunch time when he leaves the office to grab his usual mid-day Americano from Starbucks (okay, so he mainly goes there for the cake pops, don't judge). He's waiting for his drink when he overhears a familiar voice order a tea with lemon.

She's only the last woman in New York he wants to see right now, aside from maybe Sam Evans' wife. Of course he spends the entire weekend trying to obliterate her from memory, and now here she is. You know how they say New York's a big city? It isn't. He still sees the same people over and over again, _especially_ the ones he strives to avoid the most.

Her body language stiffens as soon as she notices him. He watches her fidget uncomfortably, running a hand through her hair before giving in to the inevitable and looking him square in the eye. They hold each other's gaze across the crowded coffee shop until the barista hands her her tea. For a second he thinks she's going to approach him, but instead she takes her drink and walks straight out the door.

No more than half an hour later Finn is back at his office, struggling to regain focus after his run to Starbucks, his Americano sitting untouched on his desk. Suddenly there's a knock at his door. Strange, since his secretary would normally buzz him to let him know someone was there to see him.

"Come in," he says confusedly. He nearly gasps out loud when Rachel walks through his door.

"Uh, hi," she says awkwardly.

He doesn't return her greeting, instead just sits back in his chair, a new wave of confidence creeping over him. The silence makes her visibly uncomfortable, but he just stares at her indifferently, waiting for her to explain herself.

"Look, Finn," she stammers, "I just, um, wanted to apologize for the things I said to you the other day. I shouldn't, you know...assume things about people...about _you_. And I'm sorry."

Finn still doesn't offer any words on his part, his face maintaining an unfazed expression as he watches her. It's as if he wants the tension in the room to swallow her whole, the silence becoming so loud it deafens her ears.

"All right, say something," she urges him after a moment, clearly growing agitated.

"It's nice you've come to that conclusion, Rachel," he finally offers coldly.

"What?" she asks, confused.

"I can see this is some grand gesture of yours. You coming down here to admit you might've actually been wrong for once in your life."

"W-What? No, that's not what I-"

"Maybe if I'd gotten a better impression of you to begin with your apology might actually mean something to me. But it doesn't. You shouldn't have come down here."

By now her brow has furrowed into a thin line, her lips pursed in anger as she takes a few confident strides toward his desk. "All right, you pompous jerk. I have _no_ problem admitting when I'm wrong. But I doubt I ever actually _was_ wrong about the kind of man you are. I see it now, you dangle your facetious charm in people's faces until it gets them eating out of your hand - then you steamroll them right to the ground." She scoffs bitterly, then adds, "Not to mention you walk around dick first."

He regards her with the same unwavering passivity, her crude words putting a smirk on his face that only faintly rearranges the hard set of his features. "Is that how you really feel?"

She straightens her posture, raising her chin up slightly. "Yes," she affirms. "Although I'll admit there was a moment where I thought I might've been wrong...but now I know not to second guess myself when it comes to you."

They stare each other down another moment, the air thick with tension. "Well then," he utters dismissively. "You showed yourself in. You can show yourself out."

"Fine," she whispers, his inhospitable words vaguely wounding her, making her eyes swirl with convoluted emotions as she backs away from his desk.

He's not sure what finally triggers it, or how he's even moved from one spot to another, but with her back to him and her hand turning the handle on the door, he's suddenly behind her, placing a soft hand on her shoulder as he whispers her name. "Rachel…"

She stills her movements, her grip tight on the door handle as his breath warms the back of her neck. She swallows thickly, his proximity clearly throwing her off balance. "W-What do you want, Finn?" she utters, not turning her head to look at him.

"Nothing," he whispers, pushing the strap of her dress down so he can lay soft kisses along her right shoulder. "Just you."

* * *

 **TBC...**


	3. Burning Room

**Hi friends! Well I felt like a jerk for leaving you hanging like that so I tried to crank this baby out as fast as possible. Anyway, you probably won't like this chapter. It's just a bunch of Finchel smut and frenzied sexual tension...sorry about that...;)**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

He's not sure what finally triggers it, or how he's even moved from one spot to another, but with her back to him and her hand turning the handle on the door, he's suddenly behind her, placing a soft hand on her shoulder as he whispers her name. "Rachel…"

She stills her movements, her grip tight on the door handle as his breath warms the back of her neck. She swallows thickly, his proximity clearly throwing her off balance. "W-What do you want, Finn?" she utters, not turning her head to look at him.

"Nothing," he whispers, pushing the strap of her dress down so he can lay soft kisses along her right shoulder. "Just you."

Prompted by the ragged breath she expels as her body reacts to his touch, he reaches around her to gently push the door shut, in the meantime dragging his lips from her shoulder to her neck.

"But you just told me to leave," she protests, barely getting the words out.

"You can leave if you want to," he breathes against her neck, "But if you stay I won't be able to control my actions."

She turns her head to the side, sighing faintly as he nips at her taut flesh. His hands fall to her waist and she leans back into him far enough that he's sure she can feel his arousal throbbing hard against her ass.

"Finn," she breathes, "You're…"

"I've been this way ever since I saw you at the coffee shop."

"Mmmm," she moans.

Finn's determined to hear more of _that_ , slowly moving his hand down to her smooth thigh, dragging it up and under the hem of her dress until his fingers reach the front of her panties. He teases her through the silky fabric as her head falls back and her breathing intensifies.

"I want to fuck you, Rachel," his voice is husky against her ear. "It's so bad I can't sleep at night...do you understand what I'm saying? I feel _crazy_. Like I can't even fucking breathe until I know how it feels to be inside you."

"Finn...I... _aaahhh_ …"

Needing no further incentive he whips her around, allowing her to crash into him like thunder, their lips laying assault on one another's in a suffocating kiss. He picks her up under her ass, her legs wrapping around his waist as he slams her up against the door. His erection presses into her hot center, just the slight friction drawing a moan out of her that's possibly the sexiest fucking thing he's ever heard.

"Can I, Rachel?" he pleads with his mouth on hers, "Can I fuck you right here?"

He doesn't even know what's going on, he's never literally _begged_ a girl to let him fuck her, not to mention the stakes have never been so high that her telling him 'no' might actually draw the light right out of his eyes.

"Finn," she says, taking his face in her hands and making him look her square in the eye. "Why do you think I showed up here?"

He's surprised when her words don't make him come right then and there. Thankfully he's able to contain what's been building up inside of him for the past few days as he carries her clumsily over to his desk to retrieve a condom from the drawer, not once detaching his lips from hers in the process. As much as he'd love to lay her on top of his desk and drill her like in some perverted office fantasy, the space is far too cluttered and will only prolong him being buried deep inside her, so he quickly stumbles back toward the door. His eyes meet hers in a fervent gaze as his teeth tear open the foil package.

"Fiiiinnnn," she whines as he prepares himself.

He can't believe it. She's literally panting in desperation as the seconds go by and he's still not inside of her. He feels the same, and with the condom secured, her underwear ripped from his way, he finally enters her slick folds, unable to keep from groaning as she clenches around him.

So they fuck hard against his office door. At first he feels he should restrain himself, scared for her tiny body and the impact of his hard girth pounding into her depths, but the more he holds back the more she urges him to give it to her more, to which he delivers happily.

" _Uuuggghhh god_ ," he growls in her ear.

"Finn!" she moans in between her harsh panting, "Ah!... _aaahhhhh_..."

Somewhere in his subconscious it registers that he's actually having screaming hot sex at his workplace. He just hopes his secretary is either out to lunch or has her headphones on, but fuck it, he'll face the consequences later, because seriously, he's fucking _gone_.

"Rachel...I'm...oh _fuck_ …"

He'd go on for hours if he could but knows he's lucky to buy another minute of feeding his cock into her tight heavenly walls. He looks up through lidded eyes and sees her with her head thrown back, her face relaying a kind of blissful anguish as she meets him thrust for thrust. She's just as close as he is, teetering on the verge, but he needs her screaming climax to pull the trigger on his own release. Finn slows down his pace, much to her surprise, and _major_ irritation.

" _Finn_ ," she groans breathlessly, grinding her hips to keep the rough friction going. "I can't...noooo..."

The slowed pace is killing him too, but he almost chuckles as she whines at him for not giving it to her fast and deep like she wants it. "You need to come, Rachel," he whispers huskily against her ear.

"But I can't...I need…aaaahhhh Finn!"

He knows she's right on the verge, just one nudge away from spiraling over the edge. "I'm gonna pound you harder, baby," he assures her. "But you need to come _right away_...can you do that?"

"Uuuuhh uh huh," she moans unintelligibly. "Just...please...now."

He doesn't waste anymore time, giving it to her hard and fast like she needs, and within seconds she's coming undone, her small frame writhing as something almost... _musical_ falls from her lips. Ok, so he's pretty sure he actually made a girl _sing_ in ecstasy, and it's that captivating sound that helps him fire off his own release.

He's not nearly as harmonious as he huffs and grunts, gritting his teeth as his cock erupts wildly inside of her. "Oh fuck Rachel... _aahhh holy shit...god! fuck!_ "

His head is still spinning when he feels her shifting against him. Realizing she's practically lodged between himself and the door, he chuckles sheepishly, moving so she can actually breathe and get her feet back on the floor.

Her eyes meet his briefly, then quickly dart away. He feels like he should say something to ease the growing awkwardness, but nothing on the tip of his tongue seems even faintly appropriate in the wake of what they've just done. She appears at a loss for words as well, so she begins smoothing over her disheveled hair and clothing, clearly embarrassed by the sordidness of her appearance. He just watches her, not entirely sure if he should feel guilty or proud of how thoroughly _wrecked_ she now looks.

Finally she composes herself enough to speak, clearing her throat nervously before she starts, "That was very, um...intense."

Finn can't help the grin that pulls at the corners of his lips. Intense is just one of many words he'd use to describe the dizzying heights of pleasure just shared between the two of them. "It was," he agrees.

He holds her gaze for a moment but then her eyes drift downward, a blush coloring her cheeks when she looks back up at him. His face flushes with a similar embarrassment when he realizes his member is still very much on display. He quickly moves to dispose of the condom, tucking himself back into his pants as they share a nervous chuckle.

"I should really go," she says after another pause.

"You can stay if you want to," he offers.

Her brow raises slightly. "This is your _office_ , Finn."

A smirk creeps across his face, his eyes darkening with lust all over again as he approaches her in slow strides. "You're right. Offices are boring. I guess I'll just have to find a way to make it fun for you."

"Finn," she whines in attempted protest. He's already pressed up against her from behind, his arms snaking around her tiny waist as his lips graze the exposed skin on the back of her neck. He wastes no time moving one hand down to rub between her legs, her head falling back in sheer ecstasy as he feels her coming undone from the insides all over again.

"It's not time for you to go yet, Rachel," he whispers against her ear.

She sucks in a sharp ragged breath, urging him to continue working his magic on her. He sees her reach her arms out to the sides, her tiny fingers clenching hold of his thighs as though needing to brace herself on something. She shivers against him, and once again her body is too small, the pressure too big to be sustained inside of her.

He spins her around, needing to see the contortions of pleasure in her face as she erupts from within. It's a seamless transition, him resuming his frenzied movement against her clit as he watches her cry out, nails digging into his shoulder, that same heavenly music escaping her lips as the hypnotic bliss storms through her. He lets her ride the wave, continuing to work her with his fingers while his other hand frees his throbbing erection from his pants, frantically jerking his hard girth toward a fast and powerful completion.

They're both sweating and panting as they coast down from their highs. He's utterly exhausted, having been milked for every last drop he has, but he can't help leaning in to place a soft kiss on her bruised lips. He pulls back to look at her, attempting to gauge the unreadable set of her face. Much like before she shifts uncomfortably, averting his gaze. He can't help but chuckle as he watches her make efforts to straighten her disheveled appearance for the second time in the past ten minutes.

"Well," she starts, smoothing a hand through her hair, "I think it's probably good we got that out of our systems."

"Wait, what?" he asks confusedly.

"I'm glad we got to...uhm, enjoy each other's company today. However, I think it would irresponsible to carry on in this manner. At least for me, anyway."

That last part causes his face to deadpan slowly, her words throwing cold water on his body which had been alive with heat for her only moments before. "Fine," he says bitterly. "I'm glad we got this out of our systems too. Although personally I'm already starting to regret it."

"Look, Finn, I just think-"

"No," he interrupts her. "Don't even bother saying anything else. Just leave. I shouldn't have stopped you the first time."

They hold each other's gaze for another intense beat. Finally she nods resolutely, a hint of regret in her face as she collects her purse and heads toward the door.

"Hey," he says, stopping her just before she's gone. She stills her movements but doesn't turn her head to look at him. "I don't want to see you anymore."

He watches her body stiffen from behind. "Fine," she says with as much poise as she can muster.

"I mean it, Rachel. I don't want to speak to you at all. Not just at my office but at the gym as well. I'm done with you. So please, keep your distance."

He waits as the cold finality of his words hover in the tension-filled air.

"You don't have to worry," she says, shooting him a steely-eyed look over her shoulder before finally exiting out the door.

* * *

She doesn't go to the gym that evening. She doesn't even consider it. Being in the vicinity of him is not an option, not that it was ever that tolerable to begin with.

 _LOL. What are you, the Queen of the Chastity Ball all of a sudden? Who do you think made you scream like a banshee all afternoon? I doubt even Barbra has held a note that long. I'm just surprised you didn't blow the roof off the joint. Oh, and nice hickies, by that way. That's gonna look GREAT on opening night. Not to mention-_

Okay okay! It's not like she's denying he made her toes curl, or that she's been walking funny for the better part of the day (seriously though - a guy actually tried to give her his seat on the subway because she was literally hobbling around like an old lady. So it's _that_ bad).

And yeah, she totally knew what she was doing when she showed up at his office. It's not like she was hoping he'd invite her to play chess or something. And yeah...it was good. Like _holy Barbra Streisand_ good. In fact it'd be nice if her panties weren't sticking to her even now as she relives it...Anyway! She'd gone there needing a good lay, and gosh darnit she got one (well, _two_ , sort of). She just needed something besides exercise to help ease some of the stress she's been under lately, figuring Finn Hudson would have no trouble obliging her in at least that one particular area.

What she hadn't bargained for, though, was the way he behaved before, during, and after their hook up. She'd never had a man literally _beg_ her to let him have his way with her (and not in a needy teenage-boy-on-prom-night way, but in a sexy _Finn Hudson_ kind of way that had practically undone her on the spot). All along she'd had him pegged as a "hit it and quit it" type, but he'd seemed more than willing to keep on pleasuring her for days if she'd wanted him to.

But no. Being one of Finn Hudson's "special lady friends" is most definitely NOT on the agenda. She's a serious actress with a _very_ serious show to put on. With the success of the production riding on her shoulders she can't risk getting involved with a guy like him. He'd only distract her, which would only weaken her performance, which needs to be stellar.

It's not like it's even a dilemma at all anymore, considering he basically told her to drop dead and never speak to him ever again. _I don't want to see you anymore_ he told her icily before she walked out the door. Well, it figures he'd be one those guys that have no use for a girl unless her legs are behind her head.

Anyway, it's probably for the best. They've already slept together, meaning their relationship has peaked. She got hers, and he got his ( _you got yours TWICE, which is twice as much as he got!_ ) so yeah, as she was saying, there's really no reason to even-

"Rachel?...Rach?..."

She snaps out of her daze to see Jesse snapping his fingers in her face. She'd asked him to stay late after rehearsal and run lines with her, needing to fill the time she would've normally spent at the gym. Surely the Mckinley Theatre is the last place in New York she'd be likely to encounter Finn Hudson. "Huh?" she asks dumbly. "Oh...sorry Jesse."

"You feeling ok?" he asks, laying a hand across her forehead.

"Yeah, fine," she lies.

"You're nervous, aren't you?"

"Well...sure, a little," she admits, not really wanting to get into it.

He sighs nostalgically. "I remember when I used to get nervous. But look, Rach, you're going to be fine. _A Different Kind of Blue_ is going to be the biggest off-Broadway hit in years, and we'll have you to thank for it."

She smiles at him appreciatively. Part of the reason she's never been totally swayed by Jesse's charm is that he seems like he's kind of a slimeball underneath it all. Still, he is a great costar, their on-stage chemistry is to die for, and he's been a good support system throughout this whole grueling process. "Thanks, Jesse. You know, as nervous as I am, I really do feel like we've got a hit on our hands. And even if the critics do hate us, well, hey, it's not like Patti and Barbra got all stellar reviews their first go round."

"Yeah, but don't you see, Rachel?" he asks, closing the gap between them as he takes a step forward. "You're brighter than all the Barbra's and all the Broadway stars combined. You're the _best_. Trust me - there's no one like you."

His words affect her. She can't help it; she's anything but immune to flattery, and he knows it. They hold each other's gaze for a moment, Jesse grinning down at her as he brings a hand up to graze her cheek.

She smiles faintly. After the confusing day she's had it sure is nice to have a good... _friend_.

One thing she can't help but take note of as his strong hand rests against her cheek, is the fact that her body would most likely be alive with desire if that hand were Finn's.

* * *

He almost called Santana last night. _Almost_ , but then he figured she'd just tell him to go to hell and hang up on him for having not called her in weeks. Truthfully he hadn't really felt like seeing her anyway. It just seemed like a quick solution to getting Rachel out of his head, at least for one night. It's sort of like when you see something disgusting and you try to look at something even _more_ disgusting just to the get the previous image out of your head. Or, you know...whatever the sex version of that is.

All he knows is, he should've called someone, or done something, _anything_ but what he actually did do, which was search for Rachel on Instagram. He couldn't help himself; he just needed a piece of her, see what she was up to before attempting to banish her from recent memory. He'd expected to find a bunch of annoying photos of green juice and all that gross-looking healthy shit she probably lives on. Instead he found something _way_ worse.

It was a selfie of her and that Jesse guy he recognized from yoga class, posted just _hours_ after hooking up with Finn at his office.

It's safe to say nothing could've prepared him for the way his insides had begun churning at the sight of her smiling and looking all happy and canoodley with another dude. The only thing worse than the nausea sweeping over him was the fact that his reaction was completely unwarranted.

 _Oh relax, big guy, you know social media is designed to fuck with our heads. Two people who hate each other in real life can be made to look like a married couple in one photo. This is what smart people call "distorted perceptions of reality"-_

All right, all right! He's not saying they're madly in love or anything, although, let's face it, paranoia and pessimism have him concluding that yeah, they definitely _are_ , possibly even married or engaged...right now they're probably off on some yoga retreat singing _kumbaya_ while she stretches in those shorts, her ass in Jesse's face as he thinks about banging her raw, making her scream _his_ name instead of Finn's, and-

"Dude! You cannot be serious!"

Puck definitely thinks he's lost it. He's been pretty understanding so far, knowing Finn's under a shit load of stress with this whole Evans ordeal; however, when he tries to bail on their workout for the second night in a row he can see his best friend's patience has worn thin.

"Sorry, man, I've just got too much on my plate right now," Finn says, heaving a weary sigh as he sits back in his desk chair. "Besides, I didn't bring any workout clothes anyway."

Puck promptly reaches into his gym bag, retrieving a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. "Not to worry, my brother! I got you covered." He throws the clothes across the room, nearly hitting Finn in the face.

"Dude, _thanks_ ," Finn says. "But seriously, it's not happening tonight."

Puck sighs in frustration. "Look, I know you've got Evans on your ass, but trust me, bro, you _need_ to get a good workout in. It'll help you blow off some steam, plus I know for a fact you haven't been laid in weeks."

Finn tries to stifle the blush that colors his face, not to mention the laughter when he thinks of how he had in fact been 'laid' just yesterday in the very spot where Puck's now standing. "What's it gonna take to get you off my back?" he asks irritably.

"Just come lift weights with me for an hour. Just _one fucking hour_ and then you can come back here and jerk off all night if you want to."

Finn rolls his eyes. He can see his friend's not letting him off the hook on this one. Eh, what the hell. At least if Rachel's there he'll have proof she's not off frolicking in a meadow with that Jesse character. "All right, fine, just let me get changed - you wanna stay and watch?" he adds sardonically.

Puck throws up his hands as he starts backing toward the door. "Don't need to see any of the jewels, Hudson. And hey, you'd better not be going commando in my shorts!"

"You think I want my junk in the same place you've had yours?" Finn snaps. "Now get the hell out of here!"

"Fine, just hurry your pasty ass up, Finnessa!" Puck calls, slamming the door behind him.

Now that he's alone, he reluctantly changes into the gym clothes assigned to him by Puck. Pulling the shorts up around his waist, he feels something odd inside one of the pockets...Seriously, Puck? _A condom?_ He's not sure why he's surprised. His horndog of a friend probably keeps a rubber in the pocket of every piece of clothing he owns.

Finn sighs. "Probably not gonna need one of these tonight," he mutters before heading out the door.

* * *

He doesn't see her at first. He doesn't try to look for her either...well, at least tries not to try. It shouldn't be too hard to focus on his workout with Puck yammering on about some pitcher for The Yankees he just acquired that day. Or is the The Mets? God, he can't even keep his teams straight, his head's too full of Rachel and whether or not she'll show up tonight.

He stops wondering when he sees her exit the women's locker room, water bottle and towel in hand as she heads to the middle of the gym floor. His first thought is that he's glad she's headstrong enough not to rearrange certain parts of her life on account of him. As insane as he feels when he looks at her, he still has no desire to make things... _difficult_ for her. Not anymore, at least.

He's way over by the squat racks and weight benches, too far away to gauge her facial expression when she notices him.

Whatever, he just needs to focus on getting a good workout in before he heads back to the office. With Rachel tucked away in her little corner and Puck on him to keep his head in the game, it's proving to be easier than he expected.

He and Puck are trading sets on the bench press when this dude with an insanely outdated haircut approaches them.

"Hey ladies," the mullet head greets them.

Finn's pretty sure he knows this guy from somewhere. His name is either Rick or Dick, the latter being more appropriate.

"What are you doing here, stick head?" Puck asks.

"Oh nothing. Just seeing if either of one of you chumps needs a spotter."

Nah, we're good, bro," Puck says. "Maybe you should go do a Jazzercise class or something."

The mullet head smirks. "Oh please. You two can act like you're the shit all you want. I happen to know Sam Evans is about to leave your asses in the gutter."

Now Finn remembers where he knows this jerk from. He works for Clarington-Smythe, one of the top sports agencies in Manhattan. They're probably Sylvester & Shuester's biggest rival, the two agencies always competing for clients.

"You don't know what you're talking about, dude," Finn says evenly.

"Oh, is that so, Hudson? Because just today I got a call from Mrs. Sam Evans herself saying she wants to find her husband a brand new agent...since it appears his current one can't even get him a contract good enough to wipe his ass with."

Finn's jaw tightens. "I don't know what Evans' wife told you, puck head. But she told me she'd rather her husband had an agent who isn't a washed up ex-hockey player."

The mullet head scoffs. "In your dreams, Hudson. You couldn't even get recruited to play college football. If anyone's a washed up ex-stud around here, it's you."

"Dude, get the fuck outta here," Puck snaps, clearly wanting to knock this arrogant fuckboy back to the eighties when his haircut was actually cool. Finn feels the same, but knows it's not worth the aggravation. The last thing he wants to do is be "that guy" who gets in a fist fight in the middle of a gym, although Puck would undoubtedly wear that title proudly.

"Face it, Hudson," mullet head taunts, his eyes narrowed in on Finn's. "Mrs. Evans already came crying to me. It's just a matter of time before Mr. Evans does too."

Finn is robbed of a comeback as Kitty approaches, unknowingly interrupting their stand-off. "Hello boys," she says, regarding all three of them with distaste. "Would any one of you mind joining in on tonight's boxing class? It's not that I particularly care to have your company, it's just that we're doing a self-defense circuit and I need a guy to act as the perpetrator." She pauses, shooting Finn a contemptuous glare. "Shouldn't be too great of a stretch for you, Hudson."

Finn rolls his eyes, "Get lost, Kitty. I don't have time to be one of your props."

"Shit, I'll do it," Puck offers.

Finn shoots his friend a baffled look. "Dude, really?"

"Hell yeah, bro! I'd love to 'perpetrate' a room full of fine lookin ladies. Sounds like a Puckzilla paradise to me."

"Speaking of fine," the mullet head says, his jaw on the floor as his eyes feast on something off in the far distance. Finn turns his head to look, his mouth filling up with bile when he sees Rachel walking toward the exercise classroom.

"Yeah, dude," Puck says, also admiring Rachel's assets from behind. "That tight little brunette'll probably jump my bones if I go anywhere near her. I'll pin her to the ground and have her begging me to take her back to _casa de Puck_ in no time."

Finn seriously thinks he's going to hurl, his entire body in upheaval at the mere thought of Rachel getting "physical" with Puck.

"No way, man, if anyone's getting a piece of that it's me," mullet head protests.

"Seriously, bro? You think any one of those chicks is gonna chose mullet over mohawk? Save yourself the humiliation."

" _Humiliation?_ You look like a squirrel died on your head, bro! You think anybody's gonna-"

"I'll do it!" Finn blurts out, interrupting their hostile banter. He chuckles a bit sheepishly as three sets of eyes shoot him confused looks.

"So you've had a change of heart, huh, Hudson?" Kitty asks skeptically.

"No, it's just that I uh…" he stammers, "I just remembered I took a self-defense class back in college."

"Oh _really_?" Puck asks, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Y-Yeah. I mean it's not like I'm an expert or anything, but I at least know the basics." He narrows his eyes on the mullet head, then adds, "All _this_ guy knows how to do is chase people around with hockey sticks."

The mullet head lunges toward Finn, but Puck holds him back. "Take it easy, dude. Come to think of it, my best bro here probably needs this more than we do," Puck says, alluding to his earlier comments about Finn not getting any action in weeks.

"Oh yeah, why's that?" mullet head asks, still struggling against Puck's restraint.

Finn shoots Puck a warning glare. "I don't _need_ it any more than you guys do," Finn says defensively.

"Oh God!" Kitty scowls. "You guys bicker like a bunch of church ladies! But I actually do agree Finn should be the one who helps with my class."

Finn looks down at Kitty, noticing a hint of mischief in her eyes. "You do?"

She nods, "Yep. Follow me!"

Puck gives him a thumbs up and mullet man just shoots him a death glare as Finn turns and follows Kitty toward the exercise classroom. _What the hell did I just get myself into_ , he silently wonders. He basically just cockblocked his best friend, and stick head probably wants to bash his face in, but honestly the thought of either one of them putting the moves on Rachel sent his entire body into a minor hysteria. He just _had_ to intervene, make up some bogus thing about taking self-defense classes in college.

Well, so much for never seeing Rachel again. _That_ lasted all of one day…

* * *

Her whole body freezes as soon as she sees him. Thank god for the giant punching bags scattered around the room, Rachel quickly ducking behind one before anyone notices the blush flaming her cheeks. Seriously...is this guy _trying_ to torture her? What possible motive could he have for showing up here today?

Actually she's pretty sure she already knows the answer to that.

He hates her. Literally _hates_ her, and is doing everything he can to get under her skin, pull her focus, ruin her life, make her miserable...well except for when he's having sex with her. She wasn't exactly miserable _then_ , but still, aside from wanting a good fuck out of her, it's clear he despises every fiber of her being.

 _Sigh..._

Well, it is what it is. She'll just have to suck it up and take it. What other choice is there? She's not switching gyms. She's not leaving the city for god's sake (not until she's won at least three Tonys anyway). So yeah - that's that. He can hate her all he wants. Not like she cares!

Oh, and she's _never_ having sex with him again. _Nope, nope, na-nope_. Not doin' that! SO not even worth the aggravation anyway...

….

….

….

...NOPE.

* * *

Finn can hardly even see her. She's so small the punching bag is enough to completely obstruct her from view. She continues to avert his eyes as Kitty leads the class through a warm up. It really shouldn't matter at all considering there are at least a dozen other women casting flirtatious looks at him, but honestly, he's just not feeling any of them right now.

Fuck, why the hell did he even agree to this in the first place? Although he clearly knows the answer to that.

"Alright ladies," Kitty calls out, "Today we're focusing on self-defense. As you can see, _Finn_ here has volunteered to act as our male perpetrator."

A few of the women whistle as Finn squirms in embarrassment. Kitty's last sentence makes him sound like the world's biggest creeper _for sure_ , so he's regretting this more by the minute. His eyes cautiously drift over to where Rachel's standing next to her punching bag, clearly still intent on avoiding him. Still, he can barely refrain from chuckling out loud at how adorably tiny she looks in proportion to the tall black bag, which practically towers over her like a skyscraper.

The class begins, Kitty leading the women through the basic pillars of self-defense. Finn's relieved he doesn't have to do much other than stand there and let Kitty use him like a test dummy as she demonstrates locating a man's solar plexus. He has to admit, he probably wouldn't mess with the sassy blonde. She seems to really know her way around the male anatomy (and _not_ in a good way). He thinks back to that night a few months ago when she'd nearly kicked him square in the nads because he refused to sleep with her. He'd been out at Warbler's with the guys and she'd been there too. They'd talked a little; Finn thought she was cute, but clearly out of her mind, and by the end of the night she was far too drunk for him to even consider trying anything anyway. He was about to hail a cab to send her home in when she'd literally thrown herself at him, kissing and biting his neck and whispering filthy things in his ear, begging him to take her right there. He refused, trying to do the gentlemanly thing by not taking advantage of a girl in her drunken state, but Kitty apparently saw it as a personal thing, and has hated him ever since.

"Finn!" Kitty shouts, stirring him from his thoughts. His first instinct is to place both his hands protectively over his balls when he sees the cold calculating look on the blonde's face. "All right, girls!" she says in an upbeat voice. "That's enough instruction for today. Now it's time to have some fun."

Something in the way Kitty emphasizes the word 'fun' makes him think he's about to do a lot more than stand there while she pretends to elbow him in the chest.

"Finn," Kitty continues, "Why don't you, uhm, stand right over there."

He doesn't like the way her eyes narrow in on him, a smirk playing on her lips as she invites him to move to the farthest corner of the room.

"Uh...ok," he reluctantly agrees. He drags his feet as he makes his way through the crowded room, his eyes briefly landing on Rachel's, noting the hard set of her features as she maintains her staunch indifference toward his presence. When he reaches the far corner he turns and looks point-blankly at Kitty, wondering what the hell this is all about.

"Now ladies," Kitty starts, "Regardless of whether you encounter a violent attacker in the city, you should still be on the lookout for men who attack your heart. _You know_...the type of man who vies for your trust, only to leave you stranded like a dog in the street as soon as he's gotten his fix."

All this the blonde recites in a spiteful tone while her eyes shoot daggers across the room at Finn. He can only stand there dumbfounded (and a little scared to be honest) as he feels most of the women in the room casting vindictive glares in his direction. It doesn't matter that they've never spoken to him a day in their lives'; he's suddenly symbolic of every guy who's ever wronged or mistreated them. All he can do is pray to Grilled Cheezus he gets out of this room alive.

Everything is sort of a blur from thereon. One minute he's standing with his back to the wall, his jaw slightly agape as he grapples for the right words to defend himself. Next thing he knows a dozen angry women have swarmed around him, pummeling and kicking him while Kitty stands off to the side and eggs them on. Finn can only cower in the corner as the beating continues, his eyes darting around frantically until finally landing on Rachel, who's standing apart from the group watching it all go down with a look of horror on her face.

* * *

It feels like her feet are stuck in cement as she stands off to the side watching with wide eyes as the flock of feisty women pile every ounce of their pent-up man-hating aggression onto Finn. She assumed he'd volunteered to help with class on purpose just to mess with her, but there's no way would've signed up for _this_.

 _HOLY SHIT - did that woman just rip his shirt?_

Okay this has gotten WAY out of hand. Sure, she dislikes him, and maybe he sort of has it coming, but this...this just seems excessive. She just can't believe Kitty's even allowing this to go on, let alone encouraging it like some kind of schoolyard bully.

She has to intervene, because this is _way_ beyond "girl power" or anything she can support in good conscience.

"Hold it, ladies!" Kitty shouts, ordering them to halt their attack. She looks over at Rachel. "What's the matter with you, girl? Don't you want to get in on this too?"

Rachel shifts uncomfortably, feeling Finn's eyes on her as she stammers, "Oh I-I don't know."

Kitty blanches at her reluctance. "Seriously? I figured you'd be first in line to throw a few jabs at _Finn Hudson_. It's not like you even need to worry about hurting him. Guys like Finn can't feel anything above the groin anyway."

The other women snicker as Rachel's gaze shifts nervously over to Finn. It's a rather pitiful sight, his large frame slumped against the wall, a defeated yet almost challenging look in his eyes as he stares intensely back at her. She swallows thickly before turning to face Kitty. "No I think you've gone far enough," she states boldly. "In fact I'm certain that if your manager were to find out about this you'd be fired."

Kitty huffs, clearly not expecting Rachel to react in this manner. Meanwhile the other women are shooting her disapproving glares like she's Little Miss Goody Two Shoes threatening to rat them out to the principal or something. _Great, it's high school all over again_.

" _Fine_ ," Kitty concedes before transferring her heated gaze over to Finn. "Get the hell out of my class you big pussy."

Finn's already on his feet, pushing his way through the crowd, the women continuing to laugh and ridicule him as he makes his way toward the door. He's not gone more than two seconds before Rachel grabs her things and takes off after him.

* * *

 **TBC...**


	4. I Know Places

**Hey guys! Thanks so much for all the support. I'm always open to your feedback so keep it comin! Sorry for the assassination of Kitty - it's nothing personal I assure you, I just need her to serve as a plot device in this AU, plus her character tends to work well as a villain.**

 **Hope you enjoy this chapter!**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own it.**

* * *

His entire body burns with humiliation, a thin sheen of tears blur his vision as he storms toward the double doors. Puck will be wondering what the hell happened to him, but who cares, he'll deal with that later when it feels like he didn't just get the shit kicked out of him by an army of angry girls.

"Finn!"

He hears her familiar voice calling out to him. He's tempted not to face her at all, already disgraced enough without her seeing the tears in his eyes, but something makes him stop in his tracks.

She's out of breath when she catches up to him, her brown eyes as wide as they were back in the classroom. "Finn, I...I'm sorry. I'm so about that. I had no idea-"

"Didn't you?" he demands.

"No!" she nearly shrieks. "Finn, I swear. Regardless of what's happened between us I would never…"

He remains unresponsive as she trails off. She stands there looking up at him, pity setting into her features as her wide eyes take in the battered state of his face. "Finn, you're bleeding," she says softly, bringing a hand up to gently graze the cut underneath his right eye.

Her touch sparks a new kind of fire within him, catching every inch of his body in its sweltering blaze. The humiliation and rage he felt just seconds ago are suddenly swept under a current of raw lust and a fiendish desire to feel her body against his. Without a word he leans in, catching her lips in a passionate kiss. It takes her by surprise at first, but then she's quickly kissing him back with a similar fervency, her hands reaching up to tangle in his hair as she moans against his mouth.

He has to be discreet - they're still in a public place after all - but no one really takes much notice as he steers her toward the locker room, his fingers clenching her waist, his dick grazing her tight ass, making him throb right out of his shorts. Thankfully the men's locker room has cleared out and appears deserted as he urges Rachel toward the shower stalls in back. He barely remembers to lock the door behind them before his large body has her up against the wall, her chest heaving against the cold tile as he presses into her from behind.

"Finn," she whines breathlessly, "Please…"

He wastes no time pulling her shorts and underwear down, biting her neck and growling hotly against her ear as he fumbles to retrieve the condom (thanks Puck!) from his pocket. With the condom secured, her body writhing in need, his body literally shaking in anticipation of fucking her hard, he forcefully pushes into her from behind, instantly reaching up and seizing a fistful of her hair to help brace himself against shockwaves of pleasure that nearly shatter him on the spot. She feels so good he can hardly bear it, can't stop the primal grunts escaping his lips as the intensity and passion of his thrusts threaten to put her straight through the wall.

"You're so hot Rachel," he growls. "I'm gonna fuck you until you're blind baby...do you want that?"

"Yessss," she breathes out, her voice muffled against the wall.

Needing to see more of her before stars begin exploding behind his eyes, he pulls out of her just long enough to turn her around so she's facing him. The look of sheer agony and need remains frozen on both their faces until he's once again buried deep inside her slick walls, Finn lifting her up so her back's against the wall, her legs wrapped tightly around him. He resumes driving in and out of her, this time at a torturously slow pace he thinks might literally kill them both if he doesn't pick it up soon.

"Finn," she whines, her head thrown back, her face wearing that same look of blissful anguish, her little fingers practically tearing his hair out as she silently pleads for more.

"What baby? You like that?" he asks in a low voice, angling in on a spot that makes her scream and teasing it with slow, rhythmic thrusts. He's bad. He's so, _so_ bad for doing this, for holding her in this place where the light trickles in dimly through cracks, but making it so it can't yet flood her with its big starry rapture of brightness. It's been a long, weird, exhausting day, and he's possibly taking some of the angst and other convoluted things he feels out on her. But it's also more than that; he's nothing short of a crazed man when he's buried deep inside her. She literally works him up in ways that make him wonder if there's actual danger lying somewhere in all of this. In fact he should probably send for the police immediately after this is over. He shouldn't be allowed to roam the streets, not when a tiny little woman like her is capable of driving him toward such frenzied extremes.

" _Yes_ ," she pants.

"You like when I'm inside you?...Fucking you like this?"

She moans, "Uuugghh god yes, I love it...fuck me, Finn, please…"

His eyes are literal flames, burning as they watch her ache for him. "All right," he whispers. With that he picks up his pace, fucking her hard until she's spasming beneath him, his release following immediately behind. His ears ring, his eyes burn, rockets and shards of light shoot from every pore, wringing him out like a wet rag until he's dry.

It feels like hours pass before he finally regains consciousness. She's still pinned between him and the wall, clearly needing ample time to recover as well. "You ok?" he finally asks, for some reason feeling like she might not be.

"Yeah," she answers. "Yeah, fine."

He gently grabs hold of her waist and helps lower her to the floor. She immediately busies herself with fixing her appearance as best she can, not that it's really all that necessary (they're at a gym, not a palace; the perks of hooking up here are both of them can walk out looking like they just got fucked sideways and no one's likely to bat an eye).

He can't help but stand there and stare at her, his mind fumbling for any appropriate words, but coming up short, as usual. She ends up being the one to break the silence.

"So," she says decisively, "I really think it's only right that I report Kitty to the manager. If today's shenanigans are any indication of what she's capable of, she should probably be terminated on the spot."

His brow furrows as she rambles on. This isn't what he wants to hear. He couldn't give two shits about Kitty. In fact, ever since making this strange, yet _earth-shatteringly_ explosive connection to Rachel he's practically had to feign giving two shits about all other pressing matters in his life.

"Oh _Finn_ ," she groans, playing off his unnerved expression, "Please don't tell me you're letting your stubborn macho pride hinder you from doing what's ethical and right. We both know Kitty deserves to be-"

"I don't give a damn about Kitty, Rachel!" he snaps. "The only thing I'm concerned with is _you_. And, you know... _us_."

She appears impacted by his words for just a moment before her eyes quickly drop to the floor. He watches as she shifts nervously on her feet, clearing her throat as if to rid her voice of any emotion before she speaks. "Finn, I'm not going to be coming back here for a while…"

She trails off, and Finn attempts to make sense of her ominous words. He sighs, "Look Rachel, you don't have to quit the gym because of me. That'd be ridiculous. And those things I said to you yesterday at my office about being 'done' with you and all that...well I didn't mean it. I mean, _clearly_." A faint smirk plays on his lips when he emphasizes that last part.

Meanwhile Rachel remains unfazed, swallowing thickly before looking up to meet his gaze. "Well I'm glad to hear that, Finn. However it's not because of you. It's...it's a work thing. I'm-"

"Oh _come on_ , Rachel," he says, scowling in exasperation. "That's weak sauce and you know it. Why can't you just admit it to yourself? It's me, _I'm_ the reason you're running away like a coward. And I'm willing to bet it's because this thing between us scares you as much as it scares me."

"What, Finn?" she demands. "What _thing_? You mean where we're either doing _this_ in public places like a couple of wild animals or exchanging venomous words like we hate each other's guts?"

"I don't... _hate_ you, Rachel." But doesn't he? He swears to God when this girl's not busy blowing his mind she's threatening to make him lose his. They're either fucking or fighting, there's no question about that.

"Well good," she says, lowering her voice. "I don't hate you either, to be honest. But this just _can't_ continue, Finn. It's not... _right_ for me to carry on like this. And if it seems right to you, then, well, that's just further indication that we are not a match." She looks down at the floor for a beat, her tone soft and muffled when she speaks up again. "And once again I'm sorry about what happened today. I do hope that I...helped make you feel a little bit better."

His jaw drops halfway to the floor as the rest of his face practically winces in disgust. Did she really just attempt to write this off as a pity fuck? Okay, forget his last comment. He's never hated her more. Never hated _anyone_ more than he does her at this moment. "All right," he states, his voice cold and direct. "Then I guess we're done for real this time. Have a nice life."

"Finn, I-"

"Don't say anything else. I have nothing more to say to you, so just go." He turns away so he won't see her before she's out, won't have the memory etched in his brain of her wide doe eyes saying goodbye, the sadness in their brown depths making him confused as to what she wants, and what she's doing.

He hears her open the door, but then hesitate before going through it. "You should put some ice on your eye, Finn," she says softly.

The words almost cause his breath to hitch inside his throat, but he can't bring himself to turn around or respond. He feels her eyes linger on him another moment before she leaves, closing the door behind her.

As soon as he's alone in the empty stall he feels the four walls closing in on him, the humidity causing him to sweat and suffocate. He feels like he's on fire as he yanks his shirt over his head, turning the knob on the shower to the coldest setting, letting the frigid spray chill him to the bone, numbing his nerves and senses till he literally feels nothing from the tips of his toes to the pain in his heart.

* * *

He's _so_ not looking forward to this. He hadn't exactly been sober when he'd agreed to attend Sam's wife's play; he most likely would've forgotten all about it had Sam not texted him that afternoon instructing him to show up at least thirty minutes early and to make sure and turn off his cell phone before entering the theatre (apparently Mercedes Jones-Evans is not too keen on anyone talking or breathing during her performance).

It was fun convincing Puck to skip tonight's Yankee game and come see a play with him. Finn's still not sure how he pulled that one off, just knows he'll be busting his ass for at least the next year trying to make it up to his mohawk-headed best friend.

Oh well. On the bright side, he figures his making an appearance tonight might help save a little face, possibly get him back on good terms with Sam and his intimidating wife.

Now he just has to make it through the entire show without falling asleep.

He's not sure how he missed it. Maybe if he'd noticed even _one_ of the posters lining the theater walls when he'd first walked in, or bothered glancing through the program in his hand he might've seen her name popping off the page like neon lights across the sky. Perhaps it's her face stalking his subconscious day and night that make him blind to the writing on the wall.

All he knows is, the woman he's been trying like hell to banish from recent memory is now standing center stage, bathed in warm light.

He'd been slouching in his seat, already stifling a bored yawn as the curtain was drawing up, slowly revealing her inch by inch until the whole of her was on display. Now he's on the edge of his seat, nearly falling out of it, his wide eyes fully captivated by her unexpected and almost surreal presence.

Surely he's fallen asleep and dreamed this scenario in which he's alone in a dark theatre watching Rachel put on a show for him, and no one else. She certainly looks ethereal enough to be floating inside a fantasy...but is she real? He's been picking her face out of crowds these past few days, seeing her everywhere, in everything; her being up on that stage could just be one more phantom manifestation of what his tortured mind cannot erase.

What falls from her lips next is his only confirmation that he's in fact awake and not dreaming, because nowhere in his subconscious could he have even fathomed a sound as beautiful as the one he's hearing now.

He's utterly spellbound as her singing voice literally cuts straight through him, sending chills up his spine, drawing him in as though by an invisible tether. She closes her eyes as the heavenly music flows out of her, raising her head up slightly as if she's singing in concert with angels above.

It's an unprecedented breakthrough, comparable to no other experience he can even pinpoint or put into words. He barely flinches as Puck keeps nudging him, whispering, "Hey, isn't that the chick from the gym?"

He remains awestruck in his seat as the show carries on and other actors take the stage alongside her. As it turns out Sam's wife is actually quite talented as well, capable of belting out soulful high notes that cause the entire theatre to applaud. He also recognizes Jesse, Rachel's co-star who shares several romantic scenes with her, even kissing her at one point towards the end ( _that_ part he'd like to forget). But even despite the pangs of jealousy he really isn't cognizant of much, can't absorb the dialog or even the gist of the story taking place; only her voice, _her music_ resounds harmoniously above all else.

When it's over and the entire theatre is thundering with cheers he can't even be moved to applaud. Even Puck is up on his feet with the rest of them. "Stand the hell up, bro," Puck shouts confusedly down at Finn. "You're bein' rude."

Finn just stares at her through the crowd, her whole face beaming with joy as she basks in the applause. He's never seen her like this; so vulnerable, so alive. As much as the sight makes his heart swell, a strangely unprecedented kind of anguish arises within. He's suddenly overwhelmed as images from their heated encounters flood his mind; the words they exchanged, the things they did, all of it vaguely sordid and disgusting now in hindsight. He recalls the times he threw her up against a wall, taking her roughly as if she were nothing but a cheap whore...the thought makes him physically ill. True, he hadn't been the sole participant by any means, but something tells him a woman like her would never in a million years have been prone to such wild unbridled impulses had _he_ not been there nudging her along the way.

All of her natural, sane instincts had been to keep her distance from him. He's an animal, a _beast_ , even, although he knows that's a bit dramatic. He's at the theatre though, isn't he? The actors had their drama on stage, now he's living his. Only he's not acting, he's _being_ , realizing the perverse scum of his own true nature, the bile rising in his throat when he thinks of what he's done; he's thrown dirt at something beautiful, darkened the light in a spirited girl's eyes.

Someone should pull an alarm or send for the police, really, because he's not fit to be in this crowded theatre with her, lurking in the dark shadows like some predatory intruder.

" _Dude_...you alright?"

He looks up and sees Puck looking down at him in question, his face now furrowed with genuine concern. Finn's distant gaze shifts back to where she's beaming on stage, filling the entire theatre with her radiant light. He shakes his head somberly. "No."

* * *

"Alright Hudson, let's just lay it on the line," Sam says, sitting back in his chair with his feet propped up on Finn's desk. "Are you gonna get me my money or what?"

"I'm gonna get you your money," Finn answers evenly, while silently leaning more toward the _or what_ side of the coin. It's down to the wire and he still hasn't managed to come up with a contract big enough to match the dollar signs spinning in his client's eyes. "To be honest, man, you don't seem all that tense about it," he says, noting the way Sam's nonchalantly reclined in his seat.

"Honestly I'm not," Sam shrugs. "As a matter of fact I just got off the phone with a guy from Clarington-Smythe who wants to take me on as a client. He says he can get me twenty percent more on the dollar than any chump at this agency can - his words, not mine, but still, it's nice to know I have options just in case _you_ , my boy, can't come through for me soon."

Finn runs a hand across his face, scowling in annoyance. "Was that _guy_ by any chance some mullet head named Rick?"

Sam nods, "Yeah something like that."

"Well, you can tell him I said to go shove another hockey stick up his ass. That guy's full of shit. Oh, and his full name is _Rick the Dick_ , in case you were wondering."

"Alright, alright," Sam says, chuckling. "Look I'm not saying I'm gonna drop your ass today or anything. But maybe _tomorrow_ if you don't hurry up and get on it."

"I know, I know," Finn sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look I've got a conference call with Ken Tanaka in thirty minutes. If I put enough pressure on him he'll probably cave."

Sam scoffs. "That's guy's commitment to football's about as long as his pants."

"Right, which is good," Finn argues. "The guy doesn't give nearly enough fucks to fight me on this for much longer. So I'm thinking if I play my cards right I'll have you rolling in millions before dinnertime tonight."

Sam mulls this over, finally raising his half-full protein shake in an invisible toast. "Cha ching," he says. "Let's hope anyway."

Finn flashes him a reassuring grin, glad he doesn't have his own glass of liquid to raise; if he did it'd be spilling all over the place given how bad his hands are nervously shaking.

"Oh by the way," Sam continues on a different note, "Thanks for coming to see the show last night. I appreciate it."

Finn's breath hitches in his throat at the mere mention of last night's events. "Don't mention it, bro," he says evenly. "Your wife's really something." That much is true, no doubt. Mercedes Evans Jones truly is something. He just won't mention her tiny brunette co-star who he thinks is truly something _else_ ; something infinitely beyond anything he can formulate into words.

"That Berry sure is a firecracker," Sam remarks casually. The words fall almost absently from the blonde's oversized lips, unknowingly jolting Finn to life, his nerves at full attention suddenly as if his morning alarm clock has only _just_ awoken him out of a deep and listless slumber.

"What, uh...what was that?" he stammers, trying to keep composure.

Sam waves his hand. "Nothing man. Was just thinking about that little brunette girl from the play. I'm sure you remember her."

"Oh r-right. You mean the short girl. The one who's the star of the show." He notices the way Sam's looking at him, a smirk slowly creeping across the quarterback's face. "What?" Finn asks defensively.

"Oh c'mon Hudson, quit shitting me like I'm a natural blonde. I'm sure you were bored to tears last night watching all that song and dance crap. I doubt you remember anything passed the first act."

Finn chuckles. "Well I'll admit this whole theatre shtick isn't exactly my forte. I _did_ enjoy the show, though, I can promise you that."

"Sure ya did," Sam replies doubtfully. "Just don't let Mercedes hear you calling Berry the star of the show. Not unless you want to be even higher on her shit list than you already are."

"But I thought-" Finn starts, then pauses so he can chose his words more carefully, "I just thought that Berry chick was like, you know, the _lead role_ or whatever."

Sam scoffs. "Well _she_ sure thinks so. But if it were up to Mercedes her name would buried below the costume designers. Those two have been at each other's throats since day one. Always competing for the spotlight and all that diva crap."

"Really?" Finn asks, feigning what he hopes is polite interest in the topic. "Gee, you'd just assume they'd be friends, working together on the same play and all."

Sam shrugs. "Eh, they're friends, I guess. Although I'd say it's more like frenemies. They're sort of hot and cold if you know what I mean. But whatever, it's a chick thing."

"Right," Finn nods. He sort of wants to poke around a bit, see if he can get Sam to reveal anything more about Rachel. Truthfully though he doesn't even know to speak her name without sounding more than weirdly interested.

"She almost lost it last night, though," Sam muses, his vague words sparking Finn's interest once again.

"Sh-She what?" Finn asks. "Who did?"

"Berry," Sam answers. "Apparently she's been an emotional mess all week. It's pretty out of character for her since she's usually so on top of things. Anyways I think Mercedes was sort of hoping the little munchkin would go off the deep end before showtime so _she_ could step in and be the star." He shakes his head, smiling adoringly. "That's my wife for ya."

Finn swallows thickly, a new wave of nausea creeping over him as he thinks of what's likely the cause of Rachel's uncharacteristic distress and lack of focus. The notion that _he's_ the one throwing her off such a high-stakes game, making her quiver under the spotlight she's been dreaming of her entire life, weakening that divine voice she was born to serenade the world with...all that makes him want to fall off the face of the earth and die before he can live to be a scumbag another day.

"Hudson? You okay in there?"

Finn stirs from his troubling daze to see Sam looking at him in question. "Oh y-yeah, man, sorry," he stammers. "I'm just, ya know, thinking about this meeting with Tanaka coming up. It's a little nerve wracking."

Sam nods understandingly. "Sorry to bore you with all this theatre gossip. Maybe I'll start my own tabloid if my football career never takes off. I guess that sort of depends on _you_ now, doesn't it?"

"Yeah yeah," Finn says, sighing wearily.

"Well I'll let you get down to business," Sam says, standing up from his chair. "See if you can't scrounge up a few pennies for me, okay Hudson?"

"I'll certainly do my best," Finn promises, standing as well.

The two men shake hands and say their goodbyes. With Sam gone Finn hurriedly opens all the windows, needing some relief despite the air conditioner blasting throughout the office. The warm breeze filtering in off the streets does little to cool the unbearable fire burning up his insides. His hands grip the window ledge, sweat dripping down the back of his neck as he breathes erratically.

God he's really losing it. Maybe Shuester can give him the name of a good shrink.

The shrill ringing of the phone on his desk makes him jump like it's the first time he's ever heard the sound of it. Embarrassed, he shakes his head, wiping a hand across his perspiring brow before picking up the receiver, his heart still hammering in his chest.

"Hello?" he answers, his voice noticeably shaky.

"Hudson! S'matter, you getting your prostate checked or something?"

"Huh?" Finn blanches, thinking the snarky voice coming through the line sounds vaguely familiar.

"Well sorry to catch you at a bad time. Then again it's _always_ a bad time to be you these days, huh, Huddy boy?"

Finn rolls his eyes. He knew it was only a matter of time before mullet head tracked him down. "What the fuck do you want, Rick?"

"Well I guess if I had three wishes, the first would be to witness you getting your ass beat by a roomful of chicks. Man, I wish I could've been there for that!"

Finn blows out an exasperated breath as he rubs his tired eyes. He barely even has the strength to get into it with this jerk right now (although the interruption, however obnoxious, is at least a temporary distraction from the three-ring circus playing in his head). "Look man, you don't even know what you're talking about."

"I know enough to know you're ass is _weak_ , Hudson," Rick snickers. "You getting your eyes scratched out by a bunch of hormonal housewives just confirms what a dickless piece of shit you really are. Why don't you just admit it? You've got _nothing_ , and Sam Evans is gonna come crawling to me before this week is up. You know how I know?"

Finn doesn't say anything, just stands there gripping the phone with his jaw set tight, his teeth clenched as he waits for mullet head to continue.

"Well," Rick says with a sly chuckle, "I had a little chat with a gentleman by the name of Ken Tanaka. He and all the big wigs over at the New York Giants' headquarters are ready to start writing checks. If things go right I'll have a dotted line for Evans to ink his pretty little signature on by Monday."

"You're full of shit," Finn scoffs. "I've got a meeting with Tanaka in ten minutes. I doubt if he's even heard of you or any of your delinquents at Clarington-Smythe."

"You're too little too late, Hud Bro! I knew you had a meeting with Tanaka this afternoon so I called him up this morning! 'Turns out Tanaka's been on the fence about you ever since that stunt you pulled with Karovsky."

Finn winces as he thinks of the beefy linebacker he helped negotiate a huge three year contract for, only to have him blow his knee out before the season even started. This little shit really knows how to hit him where it hurts, that's for sure. "Oh kiss my ass, stick head!" Finn snaps. "You can keep romancing Tanaka and Evans all you want, it's not gonna make you any less of an ameature."

"You sure about that?" Rick asks tauntingly.

"Yeah," Finn replies steadily.

"Fine," Rick says after a beat. "See if Tanaka actually shows up to your meeting. He might have a little trouble getting phone service now that he's on a plane to Hawaii, courtesy of Clarington-Smythe."

"Wait, what? Y-You sent him where?"

" _Hawaii_ ," Rick affirms. "Waikiki to be exact. Tanaka was practically on his knees thanking me when I offered him the all expenses paid trip."

Finn scowls. He really can't believe this. Surely this arrogant little chump is just fucking with him.

"It pays to 'romance' the people who write your checks, Hudson," Rick continues cockily. "Maybe if you were more of a romantic yourself you'd actually be winning at something right now, instead of holed up in your sad little office gritting your teeth like the _loser_ you really are."

Finn swallows thickly. Right now it feels like there's a camera zoomed in on his face, the image of his wide-eyed unnerved expression projected on a screen for the whole city of New York to mock and observe.

Things are sort of a blur from thereon. Finn remembers slamming the phone down, cutting off mullet head mid-rant before frantically dialing the number to Ken Tanaka's office. He feels his stomach plummet to the basement as Ken's secretary informs him he'll be out of town for the next five to seven days; and no, Mr. Tanaka did _not_ mention anything about a meeting with a Mr. Finn Hudson.

Finn slumps back in his chair, his limbs flopping like a ragdoll as he watches Sam Evans, the agency's biggest client, slip from his hands, along with his career. Everything he's doing, Rick the Stick is doing better, his efforts far surpassing anything Finn's put forth over the past few weeks. Figuring his days of having an office with his name on the door are numbered, he decides to make the most of them, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from his bottom drawer and tossing back several gulps of the stinging brown liquid until the desired numbness kicks in.

* * *

"Anyway so that's why I still consider _Fiddler on the Roof_ to be my greatest performance to date," Jesse states with confidence before taking a sip of his martini.

"That's great, Jess," Rachel replies politely, not even sure what her original question was that provoked yet another long-winded rant from her costar. She'd agreed to grab a drink with him tonight in hopes of officially friend zone-ing him once and for all. With the show now off and running and receiving rave reviews from critics (Rachel receiving signficantly more raves than Jesse, something she doesn't doubt he's secretly resentful of) she knows it's imperative she set some boundaries.

If only the guy didn't _talk_ so damn much, maybe she could actually get a word in edgewise. As someone who's been accused of chronic self-absorption herself she's in awe of his ability to yak endlessly about his life in show business. _SIGH..._

She wonders if Finn's eye has healed yet… _Wait what?_ Why in the heck is she thinking about _that?_

Probably because she can't _stop_ thinking about his big lanky frame cowering in the corner of that exercise classroom. The image of his helpless eyes connecting with hers as those rabid housewives unleashed their wrath all over him remains oddly jarring as it creeps to the forefront of her mind. She tells herself he must have done something to deserve it; surely he's just another pig headed misogynistic jerk who had it coming all along...right?

Besides, it's not as if he couldn't have defended himself. In fact she almost chuckles at the idea of his towering frame being physically outmatched by anyone, let alone a gaggle of angry women.

And yet for some reason she'd been powerless to stop herself from running after him, needing to comfort him in some way.

Well she certainly succeeded in "comforting" him alright. A wave of fervent heat devours her from head to foot as images from her erotic encounter with Finn pop like firecrackers behind her eyes. Everytime she thinks about it she feels like she's going to be arrested on the spot. Her eyes dart around cautiously, afraid her lascivious thoughts are somehow being projected onto the high-def TV screen at the front of the bar. Thankfully it's only showing a baseball game, and no one, not even the man she's having a drink with, appears even faintly scandalized by the things playing out in her head.

"That's nice, Jesse," she suddenly blurts out. While it's sort of her default response to everything her co-star says, she can tell by the quizzical look on his face that she's just uttered it redundantly in a rare moment of silence. Feeling her cheeks flush with embarrassment, she smiles awkwardly before excusing herself to the restroom.

As soon as she's alone inside the empty one-person stall she takes a few deep steadying breaths before splashing some cold water on her face. What exactly she's hoping accomplish she's not sure. It feels like there are pieces of her scattered all over the place. The pieces are sharp, hazardous even; she's worried someone could stumble over them and get hurt. She just needs a minute alone to gather herself and sweep up the mess.

If only she knew where to even begin. She has no frame of reference, no prior experience to draw upon as she attempts to sort through the convoluted chaos she feels inside. She's an actress for God's sake. Surely the productive thing would be to channel all of this, whatever it is, into something that enriches her craft.

But channel what exactly? So far the only emotions she's been able to wrap her head around are frustration and lust. She's just not entirely sure how her own depraved horniness ties in with the complex dramatic character she plays on stage.

"Maybe I should try out for a porno," she scoffs wearily to herself as she thinks of the ludicrousy of her predicament.

Jesse's wearing a look of exaggerated concern when she returns to the table. "You okay Rachel?" he asks her.

"Yes, fine," she says unconvincingly. "Sorry I took so long in there."

"You sure?" he asks again. "Your face looks a little flushed."

"I'm fine, Jesse," she insists, wishing he'd quit looking at her that way.

"Rachel…" he begins slowly, leaning in across the table, "I think I might know what this is about."

She groans internally, knowing he's about seize upon this opportune moment to act as a comfort to her. Considering they're both actors co-starring in the very same production it's hilarious he expects her not to see through all his gimmicks. "Oh really, Jesse, what's that?" she asks with an edginess in her tone she hopes will help keep him on his side of the table where he belongs.

He doesn't take the hint and instead reaches over to place his hand on top of his. "It's okay Rachel, you can talk to me," he says, the compassion in his voice laced with poorly concealed flirtation.

She squirms in her seat, suddenly wondering how this guy ever made it as an actor when practically every word out of his mouth sounds laughably insincere. "No really, Jesse, I'm...it's nothing. I'll admit I've been stressed about the show lately, but besides that I'm sure it's nothing that would interest you."

He chuckles. "Oh _Rachel_ ," he repeats, his eyes narrowing dangerously in on hers as she fears what he's about to say next. "It's time you just admit your romantic feelings for me."

"Huh?" she nearly flinches in disbelief. As self-obsessed as she knows Jesse is, she really didn't expect him to jump immediately to that far-fetched conclusion. "I'm sorry Jesse but I think you've once again mistaken on-stage theatrics for real life. There _is_ a very real distinction between the two of those, you know."

His expression remains confident, unfazed. She'll need a sledgehammer if she wants to put a dent in this man's ego. The thing is, she simply _has_ to maintain a good report with him if she's going to survive another eight weeks as his co-star. She's heard horror stories of actors who loathe each other off stage being forced to play lovers in front of an audience every night. As confident as she is in her skillset she's certain this is one burden that could actually break her.

There's no other option but to grit her teeth and throw him a bone. Perhaps if she just plays along for a little bit, teasing him with a few subtle flirtations along the way she can keep things at a medium without throwing their whole dynamic out of whack. He'll probably hate her for it in the end...but at least it'll be _the end_.

"However," she continues after the long pause, her new resolve softening her demeanor, "I do think you're pretty great. Your performance technique is something I've really come to admire.

She cringes at the sound of her own voice saturated in phoniness. She thinks throwing him a few lines of flattery will help keep him at bay at least for the time being. It works like a charm, and she watches the glow of false modesty illuminate his features, his desire to hear her shower him with praise taking precedent over his romantic ulterior motives, just as she anticipated it would.

"Is that so?" he asks, urging her to continue.

"Oh _absolutely_ ," she insists, laying it on even thicker. "It's such a privilege getting to work among such seasoned professionals like yourself."

He smiles proudly, squeezing her hand as he leans in closer to her. " _You_ make me better, Rachel. I think it's safe to say that separately we're both great, but together we make magic on stage."

Crap. She wasn't expecting him to sneak in another flirtatious pick up line. And damn, that kinda sorta _almost_ sounded like a genuinely heartfelt thing to say. Maybe Jesse's not half bad after all. It certainly wouldn't hurt to have a fellow actor as a friend and confidant. Who knows, maybe if she lets her guard down long enough she'll find herself wanting something romantic with him as well.

She looks down at their joined hands, hers resting limply underneath his. He keeps squeezing her small hand affectionately. She's just about to squeeze back when something pulls her attention away from the man sitting across from her.

* * *

He's staggering on his feet by the time he enters the crowded bar. If that whiskey from his office wasn't enough to do a number on him, the five or six drinks he's tossed back since then have him seeing two of everything. It's no coincidence he ended up here. As soon as he left his office he'd called Sam, getting his voicemail and leaving a barely coherent message asking his soon-to-be-ex-client if he knows where Rachel Berry lives.

" _Ayyyy Sammy Boy s'Finn Husson," he slurred drunkenly. "I need you to do me a solid bro...I need you tell me where Rachel's Berry lives...I mean does she like live somewhere inside the theatre? Or maybe she has this tiny lil house on top of a cloud cuz she's so tiny and she can sing real good like a tiny little angel berry and she sings even more better than your wife bro s-s-s-sorry 'bout it no offense bro slice but s'true...I mean COME ON! Juss tell me wurr she's lives dude I know you know where she lives dude you prolly keep her inside your pocket or something you ASSHOLE so c'mon and let her out so I can play with her too AHAHAHAHAAA ok talk to you later bro I love you bro ok bye."_

Yeah, so that happened. He'll deal with the consequences later...or maybe he just won't deal with them at all. Whatever! Right now all his alcohol infused mind can fixate on is finding Rachel. He's got this crazy nonsensical idea that if he just stumbles over in the direction of Broadway he'll inevitably hear her angelic voice floating somewhere among the crowded city streets. All he has to do is follow the sound, and, like bread crumbs, it will lead him to wherever she is. In his drunken state he's certain it's the only thing that can comfort him as he continues making a despicable mess of his life.

The theatre district is only a few blocks from his office. Well, it is if you're a sober person. If you're as drunk as Finn is right now you're likely to get a little lost along the way. Eventually he finds himself staggering down a street that's lined with several bars and restaurants. He can see the Broadway lights flashing off in the distance so he knows he must be in the right place.

He walks in and out of at least five bars, stopping to order a whiskey and take a quick scan around the crowded parameters in search of Rachel. Finally he enters a very upscale looking restaurant at the end of the block, spotting her immediately. She notices him right away as well, her doe eyes widening, making everything else in the room appear muted and out of focus.

The alcohol has just about numbed his whole body but he can still feel the world's doofiest grin practically break his face in half when he sees her. Meanwhile Rachel's expression is one of utter confusion and possibly a little bit of fear.

"Rachel!" he cries as if she's his long lost friend. "I _found_ you!"

Her eyes dart around nervously as he begins staggering towards her. The closer he gets he realizes she's not alone; in fact she's holding hands with that Jesse guy who's currently shooting him a death glare as he approaches. Suddenly the whiskey in his system isn't the only thing threatening to make him vomit all over the floor.

"May we help you?" Jesse asks unwelcomingly.

Finn shoots a glare over at Jesse before turning back to Rachel, who's still rendered speechless by his unexpected presence.

"Finn what-what are you doing here?" she asks softly.

""Whaaaat?" he slurs, holding his arms up in question, "S'a free country ain't it? _Isn't_ it?" He throws his head back in wild laughter, the people around them starting to take notice of his boisterous behavior.

"Rachel, he's drunk," Jesse mutters.

"Of _coooourse_ I'm drunk!" Finn shouts, "I'd rather drink about it than think about it! D'ya know what I mean?"

Jesse just shakes his head while Rachel continues to shift uncomfortably in her seat. "Finn I really think you need to leave," she tells him.

" _Rachel_ ," Finn exclaims, smiling brightly as if he's seeing her for the first time. "Rachel, Rachel, Rachel…" He drops to his knees as he repeats her name, taking her hand in his (the one that's not holding Jesse's). She looks down at him, still unnerved by his behavior but not pushing him away. Finn continues, "You look _soooo_ pretty when you sing."

Rachel's mouth falls open slightly, confused awe passing over her face as she struggles to process his words. "W-What?" she asks timidly.

"Your voice is like...like angels and buttercorns - oops I mean butterflies and unicorns. There's no such thing as a _buttercorn_ ," he laughs, then drops his lips to her hand, pressing several sloppy kisses against the soft surface of it. He looks back up at her. "D'ya know that? D'you know you're like an _angel_ when you sing _?_ "

"Oh God," Jesse groans.

"Oh screw you man," Finn whines, "You get to sing with 'er all the time, let somebody else get a turn."

Jesse chuckles in amusement. "Oh I'm sorry, are you _singer?_ " he asks incredulously. "Well maybe you should perform a little something for us right now."

"Jesse please," Rachel scolds him. "He's drunk. Just let it go."

Jesse rolls his eyes as Finn inches forward, still kneeling on the floor while holding Rachel's hand in his. "Rachel I'm sorry," he cries, his voice muffled as he rests his head in her lap. "I'm sorry, Rachel...I'm so sorry beautiful..."

He continues muttering incoherent things into her lap, far too drunk to care how pitiful he sounds and looks. It's not long before he feels the fabric of her skirt growing wet with his tears. He turns his head slightly, hoping to catch a glimpse of her face before some security guard seizes him and pulls him off her. The last image he recalls is her withdrawing her right hand out from underneath Jesse's before placing it soothingly on top of his head.

* * *

 **TBC...**


	5. I Wanna See The Rest Of You

**Hey guys! Hope everyone's enjoying these last few days of summer. Updates will likely be less frequent now with school starting (meh:/)**

 **Also if you get a chance, check out my new one-shot I just posted (and wrote the world's worst summary for...like seriously, I could probably write a full-length novel easier than I can summarize a fanfic in one sentence lol).**

 **Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter! It's a little shorter than I wanted, but I think you're going to like it.**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own it.**

* * *

As soon as he opens his eyes he closes them, the morning sun spearing in through the window literally attacking him like stingrays of light. He turns to bury his face in the unusually soft pillow cradling his head. Immediately his senses are assaulted by the scent of fresh lavender and linen, alerting him to the fact that he's _definitely_ woken up in a bedroom that is not his own. He groans, straining to lift the weighty load of his head; gazing through squinty eyes at his surroundings he finds himself sprawled out on a couch in a neatly furnished living room. He's alone, at least as far as his spotty vision can see, and also fully dressed in the clothes he remembers wearing to work the day before.

He sighs, letting his head drop back into the pillows. A montage of images from the previous night begin to flash in his mind's eye, most of them blurry and incomplete as he struggles to connect all the dots. He knows he fucked everything up and made a buffoon out of himself; he's just not sure if last night's damages made things irreparable or only slightly more disastrous than they already were.

Then something captures his attention. Something that also reminds him of the fact that _he still doesn't know where the hell he is_. It's a framed photo of a little girl dressed like a ballerina; two grown men stand on either side of her as she poses for the camera like it's the most serious and prestigious moment of her life. The vague familiarity in the girl's youthful features makes him smile through the shit storm of chaos waging war inside his head.

The fleeting serenity of the moment is promptly disturbed by his phone ringing, the grating sound forcing him to rejoin the land where everything's excruciatingly loud and the lights are bright and blinding. Digging his phone out of his pocket he sees it's only Puck calling.

"Hello?" he answers irritably.

"Dude, where've you been? I've been calling your office all morning."

Finn rubs his eyes wearily. "That's a good question."

"Seriously Hudson?" Puck scoffs. "Not that I'm one to judge or anything but this is no time to be hooking up with random chicks."

"I didn't hook up," Finn argues. At least he doesn't _think_ he did. He's fully clothed for one thing, and he's yet to feel the wrath of a disgruntled woman shoving him out the door now that he's awake and sober.

"Bullshit! I know your drunk ass got rowdy last night. But look, I don't have time to argue right now. Just pull yourself out of whatever ditch you woke up in and get down here pronto."

"Alright, alright," Finn groans. He's sure Sylvester and Shuester are both waiting at his office to tell him it's _not_ his office anymore. "It's not like it matters if I'm late, they're just gonna fire me anyway," he mutters.

"No one's gonna fire you, ass clown! Jake and I dug up some dirt on mullet head and that whole piece-of-shit agency he works for. If you play your cards right and _quit fuckin' around_ we could have every one of those chumps over at Clarington-Smythe filing for unemployment before lunch hour today."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Finn retorts skeptically. He knows Puck doesn't know the half of it. Surely that belligerent voicemail he left Sam last night was enough to screw the final nail into his already-closed coffin.

"Nevermind the details right now. If you're not down here in ten minutes I'm gonna beat your ass. G'bye."

Puck hangs up, leaving Finn to wonder what on earth could possibly pull him out of this giant rut he's in. He painstakingly drags himself off the couch, cursing miserably when he nearly trips over a hard piece of furniture. Looking down at the wide coffee table, he spots what appears to be a handwritten note sitting next to a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water. After bending to pick it up, he reads:

 _Goodmorning Finn,_

 _You're probably wondering where you are. You were too drunk to remember your own address so I let you pass out on my couch...nothing else happened._

 _Feel free to use the shower before you leave. Hope you're feeling better...Rachel._

 _P.S. - I'm glad you liked my show_

The words put a soft smile on his face, the realization that he's in _her_ apartment filling him with a strange kind of warmth, drawing him out of his funk and making him feel as if he's just arrived home in this place that ought to feel foreign and obscure after such a troublesome night. His smile fades, the warmth promptly vacating his system when he thinks of all the royal dipshit ways in which he behaved last night. While he can't recall much, he's certain his drunken antics were enough to ensure this to be the first _and_ last time he'll be waking up in this apartment with his head on one of her heavenly soft pillows. It pains him to even contemplate the things he must've said to her, the ways in which he probably embarrassed her in public, leaving her with no choice but to drag his sorry ass home with her like some kind of charity case so he could pass out on her couch.

He reads over her note again, his eyes hanging on the words _I'm glad you liked my show_. That part makes him think he'd at least been lucid enough to compliment her in _some_ way. He doesn't doubt the context and the wording were grossly inappropriate, but still, he'd gladly lavish her with praise soberly if he could...if he ever got the chance again…

He sighs, his eyes scanning the quaint, meticulously organized apartment, wishing he could stay here curled up in its hospitable warmth, breathing in the sweet Rachel-scented fragrances instead of venturing out into the cold hard-edged world that awaits him. He's got to find a way to get back here, to make her invite him in, not just into her apartment, but into her heart as well.

* * *

Rachel sighs, the dim bulbs framing her tired face as she sits in front of her vanity mirror. Tonight's performance left her particularly drained, her chemistry with Jesse thrown noticeably out of whack after she'd all but ditched him at the bar the other night, insisting Finn was far too drunk for her not to at least help hail him a cab to take home.

Needless to say, spending the past two hours on stage declaring her undying love for a man who'd probably prefer it if she just dropped dead had been no picnic. Normally she'd crave a challenge as much as any actress, and yet tonight in her dressing room she finds herself lost in one of those rare moments of self-reflection where she wonders if she's really just pulling faces and dressing herself up in costume in an attempt to fool an audience into believing she's someone she's not.

She quickly shakes her head of the troublesome thoughts, and when she does the only thing still hovering in her mind's eye is Finn. Despite his state of deplorable intoxication last night, her heart cannot be unmoved by words that had slipped unfiltered from his lips.

" _Raaacheellll...Rachel Berry you swing like an angel...oops I mean sing," he slurs against her ear before throwing his head back in wild laughter._

" _Finn could you please at least try to walk straight?" she asks, attempting to steer his discombobulated set of limbs in the direction of a cab. "I can't exactly carry you, you know."_

" _S'okay I'll carry you!" he exclaims before picking her up in his arms._

" _Finn!" she shrieks._

" _Where to, honey muffin? Oh I know I'll just take you back to your cloud where you live."_

 _She groans, hiding her face in embarrassment. "Finn I do not live on a cloud. Now will you please put me down so I can get you in a cab."_

" _I'll put you down if I can kiss you on the nose."_

" _What?" she asks, taken aback._

" _Your NOSE, silly. I'anna kiss it."_

" _Um...alright," she agrees hastily._

 _He sways on his feet a bit before bending down to place a soft, delicate kiss on the tip of her nose. "You're prettyful," he says when he pulls away._

 _She just looks up at him, feeling his heartbeat as his strong embrace holds her body against his. The soft fire crackling in his eyes nearly draws her in, makes her believe for a moment she's nestled in the arms of something steadfast and true. She's not, though, and her sane, sobering mind won't let her make a fairy tale out of this absurd scenario she's found herself in. Right now the only thing true about Finn is his drunkenness, and the fact that he's probably seeing two of her if he's even seeing one._

" _Okay Finn, I'm gonna need you to put me down now," she says, squirming free from his tight grasp._

" _Fiiinnee," he whines, placing her back on her feet. "What're ya wanna do now?"_

" _I'm getting you home, Finn, now come on." She's sees him meandering in what he thinks is a straight line, and grabs hold of his hand, pulling him toward the curb where conveniently a line of cabs have just been vacated by former passengers. She waves one of them down, her pace slowed by Finn who's dragging his feet behind her._

" _Be careful Rachel, you're drunk," he says._

" _Uh huh, sure Finn," she nods, holding the door open as she attempts to guide his large, unbalanced frame into the backseat. He resists, giving her a pouty, disappointed look._

" _You're not going with me?"_

" _Finn you're drunk and you need to go home. Just get in the cab and tell the driver where you live."_

" _But I dunno how to go home," he pouts, squeezing her hand in his. "I just wanna go with you…"_

 _Well this is an odd predicament. She doubts she's ever seen a man of his size and stature appear so feeble and afraid. Conflicted, she looks at the driver, who's not amused, then at Finn, who's clinging to her like a little boy scared of being separated from his mother. There's no question Finn's far too drunk to even recall his own name and address, and she's far too involved now not to see this all the way through. Her only option is to take him back to her place and let him crash on her couch. No harm in that, right? She has to be at the theatre bright and early for a promotional event anyway so it'll be easy for her to slip out before he's even awake to avoid any awkwardness in the morning._

" _Alright Finn," she sighs, climbing into the backseat first so he can see she's not abandoning him, "Let's go."_

Back in the present moment she's stirred from her reverie by a knock on her dressing room door. "Come in!" she calls, figuring it's her director Artie dropping by with notes on tonight's rather shaky performance. Instead the door opens timidly and the man who enters is at least two feet taller than the wheelchair-bound one she'd been expecting. She nearly freezes at the sight of his handsome reflection hovering behind her, the two of them framed like a picture inside the soft bulbs of light surrounding her vanity mirror.

"Hi," he says shyly.

She's unable to speak as they hold each other's gaze in the mirror. Then, snapping back to earth, she questions her acting skills for the second time that night as she attempts to busy herself with removing her stage make up, feigning nonchalance and indifference toward his unforeseen presence in her dressing room. What she really needs is even _more_ makeup to hide the blush flaming her cheeks as she feels his eyes on her. "So I take it you saw the show?" she asks casually.

He nods, "I did. You were amazing."

The praise only makes her want to cringe. Surely he can't think tonight's clunky, off-kilter performance was anything remarkable. Or maybe it's more that he doesn't know any better and isn't a critic combing over the fine-tuned inner workings of her craft. One of the perks of being a theatre actress is that unlike in movies the audience isn't allowed high-definition insight into every emotion that crosses her face. "Thank you," she says, clearing her throat nervously before standing up from her chair. It's only then that she notices the bouquet of flowers in his hand. She also takes note of the way he's dressed, the suit and tie making him look more clean cut and formal, not to mention even more handsome than she's used to seeing.

"Oh, uhm, these are for you," he says, offering her the flowers.

" _Oh_ ," she says, taking the brightly colored bouquet from his hand. "Well thank you again. Are you um...I mean did you want a tour of the backstage? I can arrange for one of the stage hands to-"

"No I actually was hoping to talk to you if it's alright," he interrupts, shifting on his feet before beginning again, "I um...well first I want to thank you for last night. To be honest I don't really remember much-I mean I know nothing, y'know, _happened_ or anything...but honestly, you really should've just left me on the street to fend for myself. I definitely didn't deserve you looking out for me the way you did, not to mention letting me sleep on those _insanely_ comfortable pillows you have."

She smiles faintly before looking down at the flowers in her hands. "Yes, well…I'm glad you're feeling better. Hopefully that type of behavior isn't something you indulge in regularly."

"It's not, honestly. I've just been _crazy_ stressed with work lately, and well, I guess I just needed something to round off my edges. I definitely got carried away though, and I'm sorry."

She wants to know more about him, strangely enough; more about what's stressing him, what's making his edges so rough and ragged that he feels they need smoothing. However there are a few other pressing issues on her mind at the moment. "So how did you, um...I mean what brought you here if you don't mind my asking? It's just this whole theatre scene doesn't quite seem like your cup of tea...no offense?"

He chuckles. "None taken. Actually the truth is one of my clients offered me tickets to your opening night. Sam Evans? I'm sure you know his wife."

"Oh really," she says, her eyebrows slightly raised. "And yes, I certainly do know Mrs. Evans."

The vague bitterness in her tone might easily have gone right over his head had it not been for his conversation with Sam about the existing rivalry between the two women. "She's got an amazing voice, no doubt about that," he says. "Although...the only reason I came here tonight was to see _you_."

She bites her lip and looks down at the flowers she's holding, trying not to let the butterflies in her stomach get the best of her. "Hm, well thank you Finn. I sure do appreciate you-"

"Go out with me, Rachel."

She lifts her head up to look at him. "What?"

He smiles crookedly as he begins taking slow strides toward her. "I mean I'd really like to take you out sometime. Whenever's good for you."

She swallows thickly, feeling her heart pound as he advances on her. "Wait, you...you actually want to go out with me? Like on a _date_?" she asks, feeling a bit junior high-ish in her questioning of his motives. She hadn't anticipated this; not him coming here all suave-like in his suit and tie, bringing her flowers and everything. Such formal adherence to romantic etiquette isn't something she's used to, let alone coming from a man she's already slept with... _twice_.

He nods, "I do. So what do you say?"

"Well I...I…" she stumbles over her words before another thing occurs to her that makes her brow furrow into a hard line. "What a minute Finn, how did you even get backstage in the first place? Surely you aren't acquainted with any _other_ of my co-stars, are you?"

He shrugs, grinning slyly. "I might've told one of your security guards I was your boyfriend. He didn't believe me of course so I promised to get him season tickets to The Knicks. I'm pretty sure he's now hoping I'll be _his_ boyfriend instead."

She can't help but chuckle. "Well wow. I have to say I'm impressed. There've been times when even _I've_ had trouble getting Azimio to let me backstage."

"Yeah, well, just because I promised him season tickets doesn't mean I actually _have_ them. It's gonna be fun figuring that one out, but who cares. Even if I end up getting my ass kicked by one of your beefy security guards I won't regret coming here tonight. I'd _really_ love to get to know you better, Rachel...that is, if you'll let me...but if you want me to go away I will, and I'll understand. I know I haven't always been as- _gentlemanly_ to you as I should've been, and I'm sorry."

She can feel her defenses lowering, the sincerity in his words and soft eyes slowly wrapping her up in a blanket of newfound warmth. She sighs, "Well it takes two to tango, doesn't it?"

He shrugs, "I wouldn't know. Dancing's not exactly my forte."

"It's a metaphor, Finn," she says, smiling in spite of herself. "Metaphors are important."

"Those aren't my forte either, sorry to say."

God, would he stop being so freakin adorable? It's really quite distracting. "I think what I'm trying to say is," she begins, "That I can't entirely fault you for the way things have played out between us...although I'd prefer it if our future encounters in bars didn't involve you drooling into my lap."

He cringes at the thought of his drunken antics, then quickly perks up at the implication of her words. "Wait, so is that a yes?

"...Yes," she finally concedes after a beat. A shy smile tugs at the corners of her lips as she adds, "The thought of you being as complimentary of my performance sober as you were drunk makes the offer hard to resist."

"Oh I'll be complimentary," he assures her, smiling giddily, "Don't you even worry about that."

"I won't," she says softly. Their eyes linger on one another's for a moment, a brand new energy flooding the small room, crackling like a hospitable fire in the space between them.

"So...when can I take you out, Miss Berry? Would tomorrow night work for you?"

She nods, "Why yes Mr. Hudson, it would. After the show of course."

"Of course. I can't wait."

"Would you...like to come to the show?" she asks. "Tomorrow night I mean." What is she saying? He's already seen it _twice_ for God's sake, and lord knows this whole theatre shtick isn't his thing. Great, now he probably feels obligated to say yes out of politeness and-

"I'd love to," he states without hesitation.

"R-really?"

He chuckles, "You're surprised?"

"Well I just...I mean you've already seen the show _twice_. But I guess the third time's a charm, huh?"

"The first time was a charm also," he says, not missing a beat.

His eyes are so sincere, so unwavering that she can't be moved to question him any further. "Well okay," she says, "I'll make sure and leave a ticket for you at the box office."

"Wonderful. Well, I'll let you alone for the night and look forward to seeing you tomorrow."

She's disappointed and impressed when he doesn't try to kiss her. Instead he merely bows slightly in the most formal, polite gesture of farewell. Shocking, really, considering their history. It's almost as if they've been reintroduced to one another under a whole new pretense. For a moment she's almost tempted to shake hands with him and tell him her name.

"Good night, Rachel," he says, his eyes still winking with softness as he turns to go out the door.

"Good night, Finn," she whispers. She remains standing in that same spot for moments after he's gone, a smile slowly forming, decorating her face for the remainder of the night.

* * *

He shouldn't have worn a tie. Not a black tie anyway. I mean what is this, a date or a funeral? No wait, maybe what he _should_ do is _keep_ the tie, but undo his collar and roll up his sleeves a little. That would look cool, right? Sort of like he's a laid-back, casual kind of guy, nothing fancy schmancy about him. Girls like that...right? No, no, wait a minute, no they don't, what is he even saying? Girls want clean-cut and sophisticated, not some scruffy looking dirtbag picking them up for a date. He did remember to shave, didn't he? No yeah, he did. Okay good. GREAT. This is going be great. She's totally going to like him. She's totally going to forget he was ever an asshole and realize he's a...wait a minute, what the hell is he? He certainly has asshole tendencies, or has at least been prone to them in the past. He's at least _part_ -asshole, sort of like he's part-Irish...should he tell her he's part-Irish? Would she even care? She could be a devout Jew for all he knows, the kind who won't associate romantically with anyone who doesn't share her own cultural and religious affiliation. Maybe she won't even let him date her unless he agrees to marry her in a Jew church and have their babies wear those little Jew hats and put that salty stuff on their bagels.

Wait a minute...their BABIES? _What the…_

So yeah, anyway. _The tie._ Hopefully she likes it. Hopefully she likes _him_. At least he got the shoes right. He knows enough to wear black shoes with black slacks, courtesy of his step-brother Kurt. _Kurt!_ Why didn't he call his own personal fashion guru for advice about tonight? Oh fuck it, he knows why. Kurt wouldn't even know what to make of his big gangly career-obsessed step-brother giving two poops about what color tie to wear on a date. Finn hadn't realized before how uncharacteristic of him it is to even _have_ a date to begin with, let alone one requiring such formal attire. He doubts if even _one_ of his post-adolescent days has been wrought with such turmoil over what to do, how to act, what to wear in the presence of a girl.

Still, such musings as "does my hair look okay?" and "do you think she'll like me?" continue rattling around in his head along with more tortured inner dialogue as his third viewing of _A Different Kind of Blue_ plays out in all its glory. His breath still hitches whenever Rachel sings, the bile still rises in his throat during all her kissing scenes with Jesse, and he's pretty sure Mercedes is sending him subliminal messages of hostility whenever she's on stage, but all in all he's too preoccupied with nerves as well as excitement over his date with Rachel, and the show sort of flies by before his eyes without him absorbing any of the finer details.

Before he knows it he's on his feet with the rest of the audience, joining in on their thunderous applause as the actors take their final bows. He can't be sure of course, but he hopes the smile gracing Rachel's face as she soaks in the admiration means she's truly happy in this moment and not faking it for an audience like she was during her performance. His own smile fades as the cast lines up to bow in unison and he watches Jesse awkwardly, almost _aggressively_ grab for her hand and her whole body stiffens noticeably. Suddenly he's struck with an odd desire to be up there with her. It's a feeling he can't quite place, it's so foreign and yet vaguely familiar all at once, and so he pushes it down for the time being and instead focuses on steadying his nerves before he takes her out on their first official date.

He meets her backstage, the burly security guard Azimio accosting him with "Ay yo hold up man where my season tickets at yo?"

Finn swears he'll have them next time ( _Lies_ , he'll figure that one out later). As soon as he sees Rachel though he forgets about the world and everyone else in it. She looks stunning in a simple black dress, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders. All commonplace words escape him as they both share a shy, slightly mischievous grin from across the crowded hallway.

"Azimio are you giving my boyfriend a hard time again?" she asks, keeping her eyes on Finn.

Azimio shakes his head, "Nah we cool. Or at least we will be once your boy Dolphin or whatever his name is gets me my season tickets."

"Now _honey_ , you shouldn't resort to bribery to get the things you want," she scolds Finn, playing up the boyfriend-girlfriend facade. "Azimio, I don't see why Finn should owe you anything at all. He has every right to visit me backstage without you extorting him for free swag."

Azimio rolls his eyes, grumbling, "Man, what a gip," before stalking off down the hall.

Rachel looks at Finn, a sly grin on her face, her eyebrows raised slightly. "Why do I get the feeling I just saved your butt?"

"You did," Finn chuckles. "I wasn't sure how I was going to finagle my way out of that one."

"Well hopefully in the future you won't have any problems visiting me backstage."

He can't help but smile at the implication of her words. Their comfortably uninhibited banter doesn't last, however, both recalling their own shyness and the fact that they are, in reality, two people about to go out for a first date. "So would you uhm…I mean are you ready?" he asks awkwardly.

She nods, "Sure. Just let me say bye to Artie real quick."

Rachel hurries off, disappearing into a room labeled "Director" and giving Finn a moment to scan the crowded, bustling proximity. He halts when his eyes land on Jesse, who's glaring at Finn like he just ate the last Klondike bar. The sentiment is mutual, Finn not thinking too highly of the man who gets paid to explore Rachel's mouth with his tongue six nights a week. He doesn't want to make any trouble for Rachel, though, so he forces a polite smile and nods to the wavy-haired dipshit, who merely rolls his eyes before disappearing inside his own dressing room.

"Hey," Rachel says, reappearing beside him. "Ready to go?"

* * *

"I cannot _believe_ you grew up in Ohio!" she exclaims across the table.

He nods, "It's true. Just outside of Cleveland in a town called Rocky River. I doubt you've even heard of it."

"Well I sincerely doubt you've heard of where I'm from."

"Kidney Bean, right?" he teases.

"It's _Lima_ ," she giggles. "It's a little cow town at the end of nowhere. I'm not surprised you're unfamiliar."

"Well I'm impressed you made it all the way to New York City. I'm sure the cows must miss you."

She shakes her head, sighing a bit wistfully. "I doubt that. I wasn't too popular growing up. I guess that's part of what gave me the motivation to leave."

She trails off, lost in a moment of reflection as she twists the stem of her wine glass between her thumb and pointer finger. He can see her past is a sore subject for her. His is too, although for different reasons. Unlike her he'd been the popular jock with lots of friends and a cliche of a blonde girlfriend. And yet secretly it always left him feeling empty and unfulfilled, aching for something more, and of real substance. He'd always attributed it in part to his father, who died when he was just an infant.

"I feel spoiled," she'd remarked sadly when Finn told her about the loss of his father. "I grew up with two dads and you didn't even have one."

Finn shrugged, "S'okay. I had a mom, at least. We're really close, so I guess that somewhat makes up for it." He hesitated before asking, "What about your mom?...If you don't mind me asking."

"I never met her," she admitted. "My dads never wanted me to, out of concern for my emotional well being. I went behind their backs of course and looked her up anyway...I found out when I was fifteen that she was an actress on the stage."

"Really?" he asked. "You mean like on Broadway?"

She nodded. "Off Broadway, actually. Nowadays she runs some kind of daycare or something...or at least that's what I've heard."

"So…" he began, hesitating before continuing, "Do you like, want to meet her?"

She sighed heavily. "To be honest, I don't know. I'd be lying if I said that wasn't part of the reason I ended up here in New York...but the stakes just feel so high. It's almost like I could lose her, even though I never really had her to begin with." She chuckled in spite of herself, a look of longing in her eyes.

"But you _could_ have her," he offered, trying to approach the subject as gently as possible. "Or you at least have that chance. I know if there was any way I could ever meet my father I'd jump at the opportunity, even at the risk of losing him altogether."

She didn't say anything more on the subject but he noticed the sadness vacating her eyes, her lips widening into a warm, appreciative smile as she studied him from across the table. Oddly enough it was as if more things were said in the gaps of silence between them than in the words.

Back in the present moment, Rachel stirs from her daze, chuckling bashfully before focusing her eyes on him. "So, what made _you_ leave the bright lights of Rocky River, Ohio?" she asks, clearly wanted to shift the attention off herself.

"My girlfriend was pregnant," he states boldly. He notices the way her eyes widen and is quick to clarify, "With another guy's baby."

" _Oh_ ," she says, visibly relieved. "Oh wow. Well that's, um, certainly a good reason to leave someplace."

"It is, but that's not all. See, I'd always had these dreams of doing something...I don't know, _special_ with my life. I was the high school quarterback and everything and so I figured maybe that was my calling. Anyway I tried out for a bunch of colleges, including Ohio State, but I never made the cut."

She frowns sympathetically. "I'm sorry," she tells him softly.

"It was a pretty big blow," he admits. "I guess I sort of took it to mean I wasn't actually good enough to do anything, you know, big or important with my life."

"Oh _Finn_ ," she scolds incredulously. "Just because you weren't meant to play football doesn't mean you can't still do something important. I mean you seem to have made a successful career for yourself regardless."

He scoffs self-deprecatingly. "Yeah well I haven't exactly been knocking it out of the park lately to be honest. In fact your friend Mercedes is going to be murder me in my sleep if I don't come up with a multi-million dollar deal for her husband soon."

"Hm, I see," she says, shifting a bit uncomfortably. "Sounds like a fairly tense situation."

He nods, "It is. Hopefully I'll be able to come up with something soon. If not I'm on the chopping block for sure."

Both lapse into silence for a moment, Finn taking a long drink from his chardonnay, hoping to counter the bitter taste the subject of his career has left in his mouth. Rachel's looking at him thoughtfully, waiting for the right words to fully formulate on the tip of her tongue before speaking them out loud. "You know, Finn," she begins, breaking the silence, "I don't think it matters so much whether you're winning or losing. The fact is, you can always change the game."

A crooked smile forms on his lips as he mulls this over, struggling to follow her cryptic words and yet understanding them completely. "Speaking of games...I like not playing them with you."

She holds his gaze for a moment before smiling in understanding. "We've certainly done our fair share of that, haven't we?"

"We have. Although I won't lie and say I didn't enjoy certain parts of it."

A blush crimsons her cheeks as she wrings her napkin in her hands awkwardly. "Yes, well...it's probably good we've stopped acting so recklessly. I'm enjoying getting to know you on a more human level."

"I am too," he agrees, although he's pretty sure he'd enjoy getting to know her on _any_ level. "Rachel can I tell you something?" he asks shyly after a beat.

"Of-of course," she says, her eyes tinted with curiosity.

He stammers nervously before beginning, "Okay well, you know the night I came to see your show for the first time? Well, it was...you were...well let's just say I've never felt anything like that in my life."

"What do you mean?" she asks, clearly on the edge of her seat with interest, yet not quite following his drift.

Finn clears his throat before continuing clumsily, "Well it's just...hearing you sing really touched something in me. _Right here_."

That last part he emphasizes by laying his hand over the right side of his chest. The gesture and his words make her blush as she smiles adoringly. "Your heart is on the other side of your chest," she corrects him, reaching across the table to help guide his hand over to the left.

"Oh," he chuckles before growing more serious. "You're really... _really_ great, Rachel. I just hope that...well, that some of the things that went on in the past haven't made you think too little of me."

She remains silent for a moment, then takes a sip from her wine without breaking eye contact with him. "You know, dance lessons might be something you'd want to look into. Because like I said before-it takes two to tango...and it certainly takes two to do some of the other things we've done. So why don't we just call it even?"

"You mean start over?" he asks.

She shrugs, "Or we could just start from here."

He smiles crookedly, nodding slowly in agreement. "Here is good."

They sit there grinning across the table at one another for what seems like hours, eyes glowing as calm, comfortable waves of electricity spark the wires that seem to connect them. It's an entirely different energy than before; not the short-circuited kind that burns you up quickly before it promptly fizzles out. Rather it's the kind that lasts, bathing both of them in warm, romantic light. Even their waiter is barely heard above the communicative silence they're enthralled in and merely rolls his eyes at the two dreamy-eyed dopes before going to get their check.

Finn walks her home afterwards, her apartment only a few blocks from the restaurant. "Do you want my jacket?" he asks when he notices her shivering slightly.

"No, I'm fine," she lies.

"Come on Rach, just take it," he insists, removing his black suit jacket.

"But then you'll be cold," she protests.

He rolls his eyes, "Alright, here," he says, snaking his right arm through one of the empty sleeves. "I'll take one, you take the other."

"Finn this is silly," she giggles. She complies though, wriggles her left arm inside the opposite sleeve before the two of them resume moving down the city street like some kind of walking ameba.

"Better?" he asks.

"Much better," she nods. "At least now I'm only half cold."

"Hey I offered to let you wear the whole thing by yourself," he teases, "but Little Miss Perfect just had to share."

He feels her lean into him slightly, their shoulders grazing underneath the dark veil of his coat. "Oh I don't mind sharing-just as long as it's not the spotlight," she jokes.

"Don't think you need to worry," assures her. "I doubt I'll be breaking into show business anytime soon. Although I did sing in the glee club in high school."

The revelation makes her stop dead in her tracks. He swears the smile that lights up her face makes the streetlamps shine a thousand watts brighter. "You _did_?" she shrieks excitedly.

"It's true," he nods.

"Oh my God!" she exclaims, practically jumping up and down. "I can't believe you never told me!"

Funny, it was always one of the more embarrassing aspects of his past, one he knew would be the death of him if Puck or any of the guys found out. Who knew being in glee club would ever earn him this type of a reaction? If only he'd known, he would've used it on her as his opening line. "Uh...sorry," he chuckles. "To be honest I never expected it to be much of a conversation starter."

"Well c'mon, tell me more!" she urges him. "What type of songs did you sing? Did you do any musicals? _Oh my God_ were you in _West Side Story_? Despite your ethnicity I could see you being a fabulous Tony."

"Uh, well actually," he begins, worried the truth will disappoint her, "I played Roger in _Rent_." She nods, eager to know more, her eyes still wide with excitement. "But honestly the only reason I even joined the club was because my spanish teacher blackmailed me."

He watches some of the light go out of her bright-faced expression. It makes him wish he wouldn't have confessed that last part. "Oh," she says, her tone dropping several octaves. "Well I guess that makes sense now. Surely a popular jock like you wouldn't have committed that kind of social suicide voluntarily."

She sighs a bit wistfully as her eyes avert his. "Actually, to tell you the truth, it was one of the best experiences of my life. I never would've admitted it to anyone at the time but I probably enjoyed being in the play more than I enjoyed scoring the winning touchdown at the Homecoming game."

His admission causes her to meet his eyes once again, some of the light reappearing in her face. "Really?" she asks.

He nods, "Yeah. Although I'm not much of a singer, not like you anyway. But I do remember being on stage, and how amazing it felt at the end when the audience was on their feet cheering. It wasn't like I'd won anything, because it wasn't a game to begin with. It just felt... _nice_. Like I was allowed to just be happy and fulfilled in that moment...know what I mean?"

What is he saying? Of _course_ she knows what he means. Come to think of it, he hasn't even remembered or reflected on these feelings in ages. For years he'd repressed them, thinking they could never be replicated and were nothing but fleeting, unsustainable flashes in time. Being with her makes him recall those golden moments, brings them to life again as though they were present tense. Perhaps that's sort of what made him react so intensely to her performance that first time; seeing her on stage helped him recover those lost parts of himself, which was overwhelming to say the least.

"I know exactly what you mean, Finn," she says softly.

A chill shoots through him as he looks into her ocean-deep eyes. His throat goes dry, nearly causing him to choke on the next breath he takes. "Rachel...I…"

"Finn, are you alright?" she asks with concern.

He doesn't know what he is. He's not even sure of the words that seem to be strangled inside his throat, rendering him stupefied and speechless. It's a wonder he isn't knocked off his feet when she leans up to press a soft yet firm kiss against his unexpecting lips. Only then does he realize that all profound, magical highlights from his past can be not only replicated but made to feel even better than they did the first time.

* * *

 **TBC..**


	6. Incredibly Close

**Hi friends! Sorry for the gap in updates. Hope this extra long chapter makes up for it :)**

 **Also, thanks to all who read and reviewed Familiar Strangers. I'm thinking of doing a sequel if I ever get the time.**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own it.**

* * *

"You on drugs, or what?" is Puck's greeting when he enters Finn's office.

"Huh?" Finn asks.

"You've been smiling like a tool all morning. It's kinda freaking me out. You get laid or something?"

"None of your damn business, you perv."

"I'll take that as a no," Puck says.

Finn can see his best bro still eyeing him suspiciously. Much as he tries, he's unable to wipe the lingering grin off his face; somebody would have to smack it off, probably, and who knows, maybe they will. Maybe _Sam_ will, if his wife doesn't beat him to it. But to be honest, Finn's feeling rejuvenated in ways he hasn't in years. It's as if can feel his whole universe bending toward the positive, tipping the odds in his favor for once. All he has to do is picture her beaming smile, revel in the memory of her soft rose petal lips pressed firmly against his, and he's practically seeing the world through a whole new lense.

He didn't speak to her much at all yesterday. She'd been busy with the show as well as some other promotional events and he needed to catch up on work. He did send her a "break a leg" text shortly before her showtime, to which she responded adorably with, "okay, but you try not to :)."

He's not sure what this girl is doing to him. The range of emotion he's experienced over the past couple of weeks is probably not normal, let alone sane. In the beginning it had all been different; he'd wanted her, but in the worst way. It was fiendish and animalistic, even hostile at times. He swore he hated her, hated those stubborn, uppity qualities that drove him damn near out of his mind. But most of all, he just hated how bad he wanted her. Caught up in this strange paradox, he'd foolishly overlooked the most captivating parts of her. That is until that night when he'd walked into a Broadway show groaning in anticipation of boredom, and walked out an irreversibly changed man.

 _She_ changed him. Made him see in brighter, more vibrant colors, awoke his senses to all kinds of beautifully harmonic sights and sounds he never even knew were there. There was a dark side, however, and his discovery made him loathe all the crass and perverse ways he'd behaved toward her in the past.

Now he knows that if he wants this thing between them (whatever it is) to continue, he'll have to proceed slowly, and with care. More than anything, he just wants to know her; to see more and more pieces of her heart coming out to him in small, cherishable fragments. For now just knowing her is enough to make him smile on a Monday. He'll sort everything else out later.

"Alright, loverboy," Puck begins, willing to put all insights into Finn's personal life on the back burner for now so they can tackle the more pressing business matters at hand, "Let's get down to brass tacks. I happen to know for a fact that Sylvester is going to give both our asses the ax if we don't cut Evans a deal by Friday."

"Why would she fire you?" Finn asks, incredulous. "Evans isn't even your client."

Puck shrugs, "Doesn't matter. They know I'm involved now. Jake and I screwed ourselves sideways when we decided to dig up all that dirt on Clarington-Smythe. We did it to help _you_ out, and I sure as hell won't regret it as long as you do _your_ part to make sure the Puckerman bros remain gainfully employed."

Finn sighs, "Look, man, you know I appreciate you and Jake looking out for me, but I didn't exactly ask for _more_ pressure on top of what I'm already dealing with. The stakes are high enough as it is, I don't need the added stress of knowing two other people's jobs are on the line."

"Well, then you'd better work on taking all three of our jobs _off_ the line by getting your shit together fast. I love you to death, bro, but you're killing me here. I'm doing my part, now you do yours."

"Alright, alright, point taken," Finn groans. He can feel his formerly bright outlook diminishing under the weight of Puck's sobering reality check. If tough love is what he needs right now, his friend sure is laying it on thick.

"Hey dude," Puck says, forcing Finn to look him square in the eye. "You know I'm just looking out for you...right?"

Finn sighs heavily, nodding in acknowledgement of his friend's good-hearted intentions. "I know, man. I know," he agrees, pinching the bridge of his nose as his mind grapples for a way out of this elaborate mess he's in.

"Look, I'm gonna leave you alone to clear your head for a bit," Puck says, his tone softer, more sympathetic toward Finn's predicament than before. "I'll check in with you later, alright?"

Finn nods wearily, the urgency of the situation weighing heavily on both men's shoulders as Puck slowly makes his way out the door, closing it behind him. Now in solitude, Finn surveys the suffocating parameters of his office. The four walls suddenly seem paper thin, built to crumble under the slightest provocation. He thinks about this career he chose, and how he once lived for the thrill of it all, the high stakes, the big risks, the pressure. He used to feel like the master of this domain, confidence practically seeping through his pores as he rose to any challenge that came his way. It's hard to pinpoint when it all began feeling empty, devoid of any fulfillment or true meaning. Even the thought of his potentially _huge_ payoff from the Evans deal had never _really_ enticed him like it would have in the past. As lame as it sounds, his only real motivation for actually doing it was so he could be _done_ with it once and for all.

Now, with both Puck and Jake's careers apparently riding on his next move with Evans, there's more at stake than ever. Once again, a feat that would've piqued his adrenaline in the past is now completely lacking in its thrill factor, leaving him drained and weary, bones aching, threatening to break beneath the strains of weighty pressure.

If it were only his own ass on the line, he would've said "to hell with it." He certainly would've never even contemplated doing what he does next. After turning things over in his mind for several minutes, grappling for any other foreseeable way out of this mess, he finally picks up his phone and speed dials a number.

Ken Tanaka answers on the fifth ring, sounding slightly out of it, like always. If Finn didn't know any better he'd guess the only thing that guy ever did all day was sit around and get high. Whatever, if that's actually the case he's going to finally use Tanaka's lackadaisical attitude to his full advantage. "Hey Ken, it's Hudson," he says. "What if I paid you fifty grand under the table to secure Evans a contract with The Giants?...Okay fine, a hundred."

* * *

He's not sure why he's so nervous...No yeah, he does know why. What he did today was nothing short of a crime. An agent making that type of bribe for a contract is strictly forbidden. He'll be in deep shit if anyone finds out. But shit - he's _already_ in deep shit! He only paid Tanaka off in hopes of getting himself, as well as two of his best friends, out of this colossal mess. If he has to empty his own savings account and make a shady deal to keep all three of their careers in tact then it's all worth it...right?

 _Right?_

Whatever, at least Evans will finally be off his back for good now with his six million dollar contract with The Giants finally secured. He hasn't broke the news to him yet, wanting to wait to make sure Tanaka actually follows through on his word. Now more than ever he's convinced that guy has a certain "habit" that needs supporting; he'd seemed a little too eager to accept Finn's proposition despite the underhandedness of it all. Oh well. As long as Ken secures this deal for Evans he can spend the money Finn's paying him to do it on any damn thing he choses.

It's pretty unlikely he'll be caught anyway. He knows dirty money gets passed around all the time in the world of professional sports. He's certainly not the first to play with this kind of fire. Hell, he doubts if he's the first to play with it even _today_. Still, it's not a level he ever imagined himself stooping toward in order to hold onto his job by a thread. The fact that he has makes him feel a bit sordid, like he needs to be cleansed of the dishonorable act.

Needless to say after the day he's had he's in need of a good stress release. He leaves the office around five and heads to the gym. He finally caught a lucky break and managed to sneak out while Puck was tied up in a meeting. Thank God. He doesn't need his best bro questioning his visibly unnerved demeanor right now.

He already sent Rachel a text asking if she might be at the gym tonight too. He wasn't sure if he should text her at all out of fear of seeming too "needy" or whatever incredibly chick-like insecurity he's been grappling with lately. Anyway, she'd responded saying she had the night off from the show but had errands to run and would to try her best to make it. Finn hadn't replied, worried that even the most nonchalant of messages might somehow reveal how much he's actually _dying_ to see her face when he walks through the door. Words can't describe the total-body rejuvenation he feels when he enters the crowded gym and spots her jogging on a treadmill in the far corner. She doesn't notice him at first as he makes his way over. The closer he gets the more he can see her concentrating as she pants heavily, little beads of sweat glistening on her smooth unblemished skin. A part of him wants to take her somewhere where he can run his tongue over every inch of her while another part just wants to be here, or anywhere, as long as she's there too.

She finally looks up and spots him and the smile they share as their eyes connect brings every dormant part of him to life all at once. Again it's as if he can feel their connection like some kind electrically-charged tether, passing sparks of energy back and forth in the space between as it draws them nearer and nearer to one another.

She brings the machine to a gradual halt, dabbing at her face with a towel as she steps off of it. "Hey," she greets him, still catching her breath.

"Hi," he replies, smiling. "You could've finished your run. I don't mind."

"Oh, well I just thought perhaps you were coming over here to claim this machine as your own, Mr. Hudson," she says teasingly, alluding to one of their first encounters involving a treadmill and the very _un_ -pleasantries they'd exchanged. Looking back now there had clearly existed this strangely compelling tension that neither had known what to do with at the time; as a result it manifested itself in rather impish forms, causing them to dance around one another as both played their childish games.

In the present moment, however, Finn can't even fathom harboring a single bad thought about the doe-eyed woman standing before him looking so adorable even in her post-workout state. "I don't know what you're referring to, Ms. Berry. I was only coming over here to enjoy the view."

"Oh really?" she asks, looking down as if she's suddenly conscious of her appearance.

Finn wants to tell her she looks _gorgeous_ , even with her face all flushed and dripping with sweat, but something catches his eye that instantly brings his buzz down several notches. On the other side of the gym he spots Kitty, the woman he's been avoiding like the plague since that little stunt she pulled last week. She spots him too, a smirk immediately forming on her lips. Against his better judgement he excuses himself from Rachel, who's now eyeing Kitty as well, and makes a beeline over toward the malevolent blonde.

"Well, if it isn't pussy boy Hudson," she says tauntingly.

"Knock it off, Kitty. I just came over here to tell you if you ever pull a stunt like that again you can expect to hear from my attorney."

The blonde pretends to gasp in mock horror, feigning innocence as she asks, "Why Lurch, whatever do you mean?"

"You know _exactly_ what he means, Kitty," Rachel intervenes, hands perched on her hips as she appears beside Finn. "I had every intention of reporting you to the manager myself, but then Finn, out of the kindness of his heart, convinced me to let it slide."

"Oh please!" Kitty scoffs. "You think anyone would buy that a couple of hormonal women put a dent in your seven-foot-tall man giant? Besides, if either one of you thinks you've got a credible reputation around here you're sorely mistaken. I guess you just couldn't resist getting your freak on in the locker room last week. Don't think _that_ went unnoticed by the upper management."

Finn hears Rachel gasp softly while his own face burns crimson as he grapples with what to say next. Much to his surprise, he feels Rachel grab hold of his hand, a newfound confidence evident in her tone as she fires back at the blonde with, "You know what, Kitty? You're right. Finn and I did have relations in the locker room last week. And you're just _jealous_."

The words don't fail to hit the blonde where it hurts, her haughty exterior wavering ever so slightly as she struggles to regain her poise. Meanwhile Finn can't help but cast a proud smirk down at the tiny woman standing beside him, feeling her squeeze his hand while her other hand remains perched on her hip, her posture confident and challenging as she engages Kitty in a heated stare-down. He knows Rachel just voluntarily bumped herself to the top of Kitty's hit list, but oh well, he has a feeling this little pint-sized firecracker can not only dish it out but take whatever the vicious blonde decides to throw her way.

"Well," Kitty huffs, maintaining her aloofness despite having been one-upped and put in her place by Rachel. "If you two are done spraying your pheromones all over the gym, maybe you'd like to get to get the hell out of my face before I have the manager remove you. Just don't forget to stop off at the locker room for a quickie on your way out."

"Oh don't worry, _we won't_ ," Rachel assures Kitty in a sugary sweet tone, smiling and batting her eyes at Finn for added measure. She then waves spitefully at the indignant blonde, pulling him by the hand as the two of them turn and stalk off, presumably to go fornicate in the locker room, which is _exactly_ what he wants to do, although he knows there's no way in hell that's happening again. He follows as she pulls him along, dragging his feet in a somewhat awestruck state, his jaw hanging open as he watches her navigate them through the crowded gym. He's fighting every impulse in his body not to rip her clothes off and take her right there. At the same time he sort of just wants to give her a high five for sticking up for him (or better yet for _them_ ) and for not only putting Kitty in her place but owning up to their, err, "relations" in the locker room, torrid as they were, with such proud and unapologetic conviction. Quite a contrast from the uptight, prudish girl he'd pegged for in the beginning.

He doesn't high five her or rip her clothes off, however, and instead waits until they've both exited out onto the bustling New York street before pulling her in for a kiss. It's deep, but more affectionate than heated or passionate. When he finally pulls back he sees her blush in that adorable way, shyness and nerves enveloping them both as her eyes drop down to where their hands are still joined by their sides.

"Hey...thanks," he says, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

Her gaze travels up to meet his once again. "Well _somebody_ had to put that devil woman in her place," she says teasingly "Good thing I was there to defend you."

"Hey I'm not denying that," he chuckles, squeezing her hand once more. His grin fades when he notices her eyeing him thoughtfully, her brow furrowed as though there's some lingering issue on her mind. "What is it, Rach?" he asks, a bit scared to hear the answer.

"Why did, um…" she begins, stumbling over her words before continuing, "I mean I suppose it's none of my business, but what exactly did you...why exactly is she-"

"It _is_ your business," he assures her, understanding what she's driving at. "And look, I can understand why you wouldn't believe this, but the truth is Kitty's vendetta against me is _completely_ uncalled for. It's not because I slept with her or anything - in fact it's because I _didn't_. I was just trying to do the right thing and not take advantage of a girl who was too drunk to see straight, and _that's_ why she's pissed. I swear that girl has an inferiority complex or maybe she's just batshit crazy...anyway, I know I can't expect you to take my word on this, considering how I-"

"I believe you," she interrupts him.

His eyes widen in surprise. "Y-You do?" he asks.

She nods, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "Yes," she says unwaveringly. "Although I'll admit there was a time when I would've written you off as some slimeball who had it coming-"

"Yeah, I know, and I totally understand why you reported me that one time."

Her brow furrows in confusion. "Reported you? What are you talking about?"

"You know, when you complained about me to the manager and I got suspended from the gym for a week. Didn't you…" he trails off, seeing how her puzzled look remains in tact, making his jaw fall open slightly as the realization finally dawns on him. _It wasn't her._ He groans, slapping a hand over his face as Rachel looks on in confusion.

"Finn would you mind telling me what's going on?" she asks, irritation evident in her tone.

He sighs against the palm still covering one side of his face. He's about to explain everything - how a while ago someone badmouthed him to the managers, resulting in his suspension from the gym. He'd readily pegged Rachel as the source of it, not giving her the benefit of the doubt at the time, meanwhile, low and behold it had all been the work of a crazy disgruntled blonde with an unfounded vendetta against him. All of it becomes petty and of minuscule importance, however, when he looks down and sees the adorable woman currently staring up at him like he's batshit nuts. It's all he can do to keep from chuckling out loud because seriously she's so damn cute standing there with her little hands perched on her hips, her brow wrinkled, her bottom lip jutted out slightly in an almost-pout. His next move does little to rectify her confusion as he leans in and plants a soft kiss on her lips. He's grinning when he pulls away, half-expecting her to lay an open-hand slap across his doofy face, but sure enough he finds her eyes tinged with far more amusement than irritation.

She shakes her head slightly as she surveys him with one eyebrow quirked, a small smile pulling at her lips. "You're a weird one, Finn Hudson."

He shrugs, still grinning. "Sorry, can't help it. Does it work for you?"

She nods, still looking at him thoughtfully. "It does," she tells him softly. " _However_ , don't think in the future you can just kiss me and get out of jail for free. I have a feeling whatever you just _didn't_ tell me bears little relevance to the present moment and is of minor importance in the grand scheme of things. Am I right?"

He nods, "You are."

"Good. Now let's attempt to put the past behind us and focus on the now...deal?"

" _Really_ good deal," he happily agrees. "So...what would you like to do _now_ , Miss Berry?"

She looks at him, then down at her own attire. "Well I'm not exactly dressed for any five star establishments, so…"

"You look great," he tells her, making her head drift up to meet his adoring eyes once again. "Come on," he says, reaching for her hand.

* * *

"Finn Hudson, may I ask where on earth you're taking me?" she asks, holding tight to his hand as he leads her up the rocky slant of the hill. He knows this rather elaborate trek through the tree-lined hills of Central Park wasn't exactly what she'd bargained for when she agreed to spend the evening with him. The growing irritation in her voice as she questions his motives once again might have concerned him if he weren't one-hundred-percent certain she'd be eating her words soon enough.

After another complaint-filled few minutes (he almost stops in his tracks when she only half-jokingly threatens to blow her rape whistle...but then he sort of figures, well, if she were really serious about _that_ she would've probably blown it on him a long time ago) they finally reach their destination. It's a quiet ledge just over the crest of one of the steepest hills in Central Park. The view of Manhattan is breathtaking in a sense that it stops Rachel mid-sentence, the sight before her _literally_ stealing the words right out of her mouth along with the breath she'd been using to speak them with.

He can't help the satisfied smirk that pulls at his lips as he looks over and sees her jaw hanging open, her eyes wide enough to hold the city lights' reflection in their depths. "Well Miss Complainey Complainerson," he says after allowing her several moments to revel in the exquisite view before her, "Now are you glad you held off on blowing your rape whistle?"

"Oh my God, yes," she whispers. She takes a few steps forward on the short ledge, still struggling to recover some of the breath she lost. "Finn, this is...how did you even…"

"I stumbled upon it when I was jogging one day," he explains. "I like to come up here sometimes when I need to think and get away. I never see anyone else around...it's sort of like my own little secret."

She lets out a blissful sigh as she remains mesmerized by the striking view of the city she knows so well. It's as if she's been introduced to an old friend, but under a brand new name. He stands behind her, watching her shoulders rise and fall steadily as she breathes it all in. It's several moments before he realizes that despite the stunning panorama before him he couldn't possibly tear his eyes away from _her_.

He begins moving toward her, stopping when he's directly behind her to gently place his hands on her bare shoulders. He hears her breath hitch once again, but in a good way...sort of in response to his touch compounded by the captivating sight he's just shown her.

She turns her head, her star-filled eyes looking up at him in appreciation. "Thank you," she whispers, "For sharing your secret with me."

He smiles, his thumbs lightly stroking the smooth skin of her shoulders. "Welcome," he whispers back. He feels her lean in first, her mouth primed and ready to make contact with his. They meet in the middle, sharing the softest kiss that feels something like silk on silk, the sweet tranquility of their surroundings allowing them to revel and ease their way into one another in ways that would've never been possible before. His eyes are closed when they part, and he feels his own breath hitch in his throat when he finally opens them and sees her shining eyes gazing up at him. She reaches up and takes his hands off her shoulders, bringing them down to her sides and clasping their fingers so that he's following behind her as she moves them slowly toward the brink of the grassy ledge. They end up sitting beside one another, watching the city lights twinkle in their midst like some kind of distant kingdom.

"You know, it's funny," she begins after a long stretch of silence. "I've lived in New York for seven years. I grew up fantasizing about it and what it would be like when I finally arrived in the city of my dreams...but in a way it was never _quite_ what I thought it would be. There are certainly a lot of unflattering sides to it and some days I feel like I'm seeing it at it's _worst_ possible angles...But then someone shows you a whole new side of it. It's the same city, the same old buildings and everything, but suddenly you're able to see it for all it's beauty. It's like...you just have to find the right view...know what I mean?"

He knows what she means. He's certainly seen New York on its worst days. It isn't all it's cracked up to be - nothing is. But one of the perks of him stumbling upon this private little hideaway was that no matter how grimey of a city it appeared to be, he always knew of a special place he could go to that would beautify all its flaws and make it shine in all it's original glory. He brings their joined hands up to kiss her fingertips. "I'm glad you're getting to see this beautiful side of New York," he tells her.

"Me too," she says. "And I'm even more glad that I'm getting to see this side of you."

His whole face brightens, possibly outshining the city lights as they share soft smiles. His own smile falters ever so slightly, his brow wrinkling as a thought occurs to him. "Wait, was that a...a _metaphor_? All that stuff you just said?"

He takes her amused chuckle as a yes. And hey, mental high five for using big words in the proper context. She must bring it out in him.

He feels her gaze lingering on his, the enchanting view of the city no longer in command of her attention as something in his own eyes seems to captivate her exponentially more. He leans in slowly, pressing his lips against hers. She sighs against him and next thing he knows he's peppering soft kisses all over her face, leaving no spot unmarked by his lips.

"Finn," she sighs, bringing a hand up to rest against his cheek before slowly laying down on her side, pulling him with her. They kiss softly and deeply, touching each other in the tenderest of ways. His hand slides underneath the fabric of her tank top, fingertips grazing the warm skin of her back. It's a chilly night and he feels her shivering despite the heat radiated off them both. He hears her let out a shuddering breath just as he feels goosebumps beginning to break out over the skin beneath his fingers.

"We should go, Rach," he whispers, pulling away slightly.

She whines, pulling him back in for another kiss. "I don't want to leave," she pouts, her hand running up and down his chest making his heart pound.

"Baby it's too cold," he tells her. "You're shivering. Come on, let's get you some place warm." He gently pulls away from her, smirking to himself as she whines in protest once more, before standing up and helping her get on her feet as well. The walk home is a bit treacherous, a distant rumble of thunder causing Rachel to grip his hand increasingly tighter as they make their way down the rocky slope of the hill. Inevitably the thunder gives way to a full-blown storm, the skies opening up and showering them in a heavy downpour. Finn hadn't quite bargained for this, Rachel either, already drenched to the bone while dressed in only her tank top and miniature workout shorts.

"Errr, sorry about this," he apologizes weakly, the rain now pelting them in the face, the thunder cracking ominously as the storm rages on. She's not saying anything. She probably wants to kill him. _Kill him_ , unless maybe she's really into that movie - the one with the notebook where the dude and the girl kiss in the rain and then they go inside the house and...yeah. No. That's probably not at _all_ what she has in mind right now.

Yep, she's definitely going to hate him for this. Twice she almost slips and falls flat on her face. The second time he motions for her to let him carry her on his back, like a piggyback ride. He doesn't give her much of a choice about it but she obliges anyway, wrapping her arms around his neck, her legs coming around his waist from behind as he holds onto her knees. He half expects her to shout belligerently into his ear, cursing him for dragging her to one of the most remote corners of Central Park, then getting them caught in a torrential downpour that's already ruined her favorite Nike's. Instead he hears that sweet musical laugh ringing out of her every time he swerves to avoid a stray pigeon or nearly trips over a rock.

There are no cabs. None that don't already have people in them anyway. They're both already as drenched as humanly possible, so he just piggybacks her all the way home, Rachel extending her arms to point him in the direction of her apartment like a human GPS. They look a bit ridiculous and are having _way_ too much fun in a rainstorm, but hey, it's New York, and people generally only find it strange when you _aren't_ doing something off the wall and kooky.

They're both still giggling by the time they finally reach the door to Rachel's apartment. Finn lets her climb down from his back, his eyes widening slightly when she reaches under her shirt and pulls a key out of some secret pocket she apparently has inside her sports bra. Seriously, though...that's kind of hot. Or at least it is when Rachel does it.

She unlocks the door, and he finds himself hesitating for a moment, wondering what their next move should be, and not wanting to assert himself or _assume_ anything's about to...whatever. Of course he wants nothing more than to cross the threshold into the warm, cozy, lavender-scented haven that's already assaulting his senses, but he needs her to _invite_ him in before he enters with both feet. Much to his relief, she stands there holding the door open, shooting him a look that's an invitation in itself as she beckons him to exit the hallway and join her over on the good side. He does, happily so, the quaint familiarity of her apartment warming his insides despite having just come in out of the rain.

"We look like quite the picture of refinement right now," she chuckles, surveying both his and her unsightly appearance. It's true, they both look like drowned rats, their hair sopping, wet clothes clinging to them like a second skin. Rachel's tank top is totally see through, and like, okay, fine, so maybe that's partly the reason he offered to carry her home (just in case some pervy guy on the street tried to catch a glimpse of something). The only guy getting a glimpse right now, though - thankfully - is him. Oddly enough, he finds his eyes lingering on her face, taking in the finer details of what she probably thinks is a less than desirable looking version of herself. She'd be dead wrong about that, and the thought makes him reach his hand out to to comb a wet piece of hair behind her ear. As he's doing so, she slowly brings her own hand up to cover his, their eyes holding tightly to one another's in an intense yet vulnerable gaze.

Up until now he never knew it was possible for two people to speak to one another without using words. He can't _hear_ what was just said, but he fully understands it. He feels it on every level...feels _her_.

The moment breaks, finally, both of them indulging in the communicable silence for an unprecedented length of time before Rachel suddenly drops her eyes to the floor, remembering herself as she clears her throat nervously. "I, uh...I think we should probably..."

"Yeah," Finn agrees, finishing her broken thoughts. "You should really get out of those wet clothes and warm up. You don't want to catch a cold."

She's biting her lip as she surveys his own very wet clothes, her eyes dancing around nervously before once again locking with his. "Well actually...I wasn't just thinking that _I_ was only one who could use a warming up."

To say he's intrigued by what she's insinuating would be a...well, is there anything _under_ an understatement? He hadn't even been thinking of his own needs when he'd suggested she warm up. Rachel sort of has her own way of making him forget himself. For instance, the hospitable confines of her apartment have so absorbed his senses that he's just now remembering that yeah, his socks are pretty much swimming inside his tennis shoes and there's a chill creeping up his spine that will probably lead to hypothermia if he doesn't change out of these wet clothes ASAP.

It's safe to say his heart's on overdrive, his insides firing up in excitement when she takes his hand and leads them to her bathroom where they take turns undressing each other, the room slowly filling up with steam from the hot shower. She makes him hang up his wet t-shirt so it doesn't get all funkified and wrinkled. (He never knew it was that simple).

They don't like, _do_ anything in the shower. Well, that's not true. They do everything; everything you're supposed to do in a shower anyway. Finn even washes her hair for her, even though he worries he's somehow messing it up. The fact that she trusts him implicitly with the task speaks volumes (even though they don't speak at all while he does it). She also lets him wash her... _everywhere_. He makes sure and does a really good job with that.

What they don't do is screw each other senseless, and he doesn't slam his fist against the wall the way he did last time after she left; he doesn't have to because she doesn't look like she wants to go anywhere for a very, very (very) long time.

Afterwards she lends him a pair of sweats that belong to one of her fathers (whatever, as long as they're not an ex boyfriend's) and she puts on these pink pajamas with Hello Kitty on them. They sit together on the couch, snuggled under this big fluffy blanket and watch _Funny Girl_. He falls asleep with his head on her shoulder and her humming along to Barbra in his ear.

It's so good. Everything they do is so, so...

... _SO_...

Good.

(so good)

* * *

"Look, I'm not trying to insult either of your performances," Artie explains. The statement is merely a preemptive cusion for the blow he's about to throw at them. Sort of like saying "no offense" before saying something that's fundamentally offensive.

Rachel's keenly aware of this as she squirms uncomfortably in her seat. She knew this was coming. Her and Jesse's on-stage chemistry has been lacking for a while now. It's not quite as bad as it _could_ be...yet. But today's matinee performance was particularly clunky and it's only a matter of time before the audience, as well as the critics, begin to take notice.

That's why when Artie called her and Jesse into his office she half expected to be fired on the spot. It turns out not to be the case, however, and despite being lectured and berated by her director for the past half hour, she finds herself feeling only... _slightly_ relieved? Of course being axed from her first major production would be the last thing she needs, but still, the upside would've been her _not_ having to proclaim her undying love to a man whose face she can barely stand to look at night after night.

She's not sure when it all just stopped clicking.

No, no, scratch that. She DOES know. She stopped clicking on-stage with Jesse the moment she discovered what it felt like to _genuinely_ click with someone in real life. That certain someone just so happens to be on his way to the theatre right now, Finn having texted her that morning to ask her if she wouldn't mind him stopping by for a visit in between her matinee and evening performances. She not only "wouldn't mind" but thinks the thought of seeing him, even for just a few short minutes, might be the only thing willing her to shuffle through yet another emotionally taxing performance for the second time in one day. She's all but dreading going on stage in the next hour, but at least for now her mind's diversion to Finn, Finn's smile, Finn's kind eyes, is causing her to radiate with sheer giddiness from the inside out. She's actually grinning now, which she's certain is doing little to ward off any of the contemptuous looks Jesse's been shooting her throughout this entire sit-down.

She knows he's undoubtedly laying this all on her. Because really, nothing's changed about _him_. He's still the same slimeball and smooth talker he's been since day one. She was always somewhat wary of his entire act, despite having been friendly with him in the beginning. It didn't last, and as she remained resistant toward his romantic advances their chemistry (both on-stage and off) had suffered remarkably.

Now, night after night, she sees the thinly veiled resentment in his eyes when he looks at her under the stage lights, their "characters" making flowery declarations of love that are more or less recited through gritted teeth.

Yeah. _Barf_. She just wonders why four years of performing arts college neglected to teach her how to convincingly say "I love you" to a person she can't stand. Thanks a lot, NYADA.

"Rachel?...Have I made myself clear?" Artie asks.

She stirs from her daze to see her director eyeing her questioningly through his thick-rimmed glasses. He's been lecturing her and Jesse rather tirelessly for what feels like hours and not a word of it has she actually absorbed. She's utterly lost on whatever's supposed to have been "made clear" to her, and so, when in doubt, she opts for the one thing that almost never fails, which is, _smile and nod_. "Yes Artie, of course," she says with full conviction, agreeing with whatever it is that will get her out of this suffocating situation _ASAP_.

She can still feel the weight of Jesse's glare as she practically bolts from the room following Artie's dismissal. She enters her dressing room, exhaling a breath of relief, that same breath immediately catching in her throat when she finds Finn waiting for her, looking more handsome than she's ever seen him in his black dress shirt and khakis.

"Hi," she greets him, probably smiling wider than if she'd slept with a clothes hanger in her mouth.

"Good evening, Miss Berry," he says, grinning at her, "What a pleasure to see you. I'm one of your biggest fans."

"Is that so?" she jokes. "Well, as much as I do appreciate fan encounters, your sneaking into my dressing room could be seen as a tad overzealous...don't you think?"

He approaches her slowly, that playful half-grin still dimpling his left cheek as he gently takes her face in his hands and pulls her in for a soft kiss. They part and her heart swells as she feels that familiar warmth radiating off of him, those soft flames crackling in his eyes as he looks down at her in what she can only self-indulgently describe as pure adoration.

"On second thought, maybe you should call for security," he suggests teasingly. "You know how those crazy fans are, some of them can get a bit carried away when it comes to showing their admiration. And I _am_ your biggest fan, after all."

She chuckles against his palms, her expression quickly deadpanning when she remembers her current predicament. "You might actually be my _only_ fan at this point," she admits wearily.

"What do you mean?" he asks, his brow furrowing in concern.

She blows out a heavy sigh, her eyes falling to the floor. "I just had a meeting with Jesse and my director. It was...uncomfortable, to say the least."

"Well what happened?" Finn questions. "Is it Jesse? Is he bothering you?"

"No. I mean, yes...sort of," she stammers, grappling for the proper words to explain what's actually going on, but not wanting to give Finn the wrong impression. Perhaps the irony is that her and Jesse's history is rather tame compared to the one she's shared with the dashingly handsome man standing before her.

"Rachel what's going on?" he asks again, eager for her clarification.

"It's nothing," she sighs. "Well, it's a lot of things...actually it's just _one_ tiny little thing. Jesse and I don't click. We're supposed to play lovers expressing our undying devotion to one another and I can barely look him in the face without cringing."

Finn clears his throat, his brow un-furrowing and then furrowing again as he grapples for what he hopes is an appropriate reaction. " _Oh_ ," he says a bit tentatively.

She nearly chuckles out loud as she sees him straining to display concern for her as a professional but knowing he's not entirely crushed by the notion of her not having chemistry with her male co-star. "Anyway, my director has taken notice of it and he's not pleased. It's only a matter of time before the audience catches on as well...if they haven't already."

"Wait, so are you...I mean did you get-"

"I'm not fired," she clarifies before adding, " _Yet_."

"Rach I'm so sorry," he says, his eyes tinged with sympathy as he brushes a strand of hair behind her ear.

She can't help but grin at him. "But don't act like you aren't just a _little_ bit relieved," she says teasingly.

He chuckles as he shrugs a bit sheepishly. "Well I guess if I'm being selfish I'm kinda glad the chemistry between you and Jesse isn't like _smokin' hot_ or anything."

"More like ice cold freezing," she affirms with a dry laugh.

There's a sharp knock at the door followed by an Asian girl with a clipboard poking her head in. "Twenty minutes until showtime, Rachel."

"Thanks Tina," she says half-heartedly before huffing loudly in exasperation, her head swimming in problematic thoughts as she feels tonight's dreaded performance drawing near. She begins pacing back and forth within the small space, Finn looking on in worry.

"Rachel calm down it's going to be okay."

"Yes!" she nearly shrieks, stopping just short of crashing into her vanity mirror. She takes a few deep breaths, her fingers coming up to massage her temples as she nods her head slowly in agreement with whatever thoughts she's trying to reassure herself with. "Yes," she repeats, her voice coming out evenly this time. "Yes, it's going to be fine. I just need to f-focus...I just have to...I just need-"

She notices his eyes tracing the outline of her moving lips just before he silences her with a deep kiss. She immediately sighs against him, the tension unraveling, her nerves diminishing as he deepens the kiss. It's like she's falling into him, tripping inside a dream in which she's everything she wants to be; she's brand new.

And then it hits her. What would make all of this so much easier and would vastly authenticate her performance on stage. She wishes _Finn_ were her co-star instead of Jesse. She can just see it - the adoration in his eyes when he'd look at her, the sincerity and full conviction in her voice when she'd speak her lines of devotion to him.

But then that wouldn't exactly be 'acting'...would it?

 _Come on Rachel Berry, I thought you loved a challenge? This predicament with Jesse should be motivating you in the best way possible, thus expanding your repertoire as a SERIOUS!ACTRESS and enriching your theatrical craft._

Eh...maybe it _should_ be. But it's not. It's not challenging her productively in _any_ conceivable way. Instead it's exhausting and undoing her at the seams as night after night she strains to force some spark of sincerity out of her and to convince the audience she's not just smiling through her gritted teeth.

And then something else hits her...harder this time. She doesn't need Jesse to be Finn. She only needs to imagine that the way she _feels_ about Finn is the same way she feels about Jesse...at least when they're on stage, anyway. That's what seasoned actors do all the time, don't they? They draw on their own experiences and conjure their own feelings, and then they channel all of it into the characters they play. What ultimately makes a character _authentic_ is the amount of realness the actor decides to bring into it.

Perhaps the reason she's lacked true chemistry with Jesse is due in part to the fact that she's never before felt that way authentically about another person...that is up until very, very recently. Before Finn, that certain 'spark' had never been real to her, thus making it difficult to conjure or even _fathom_ what it must truly feel like.

Now she knows.

So, if she can just 'go there' tonight in her mind's eye, channel all of the _Finn_ things into her performance - the way her heart swells, the butterflies, the _passion_. Even if she has to look at Jesse while saying and feeling it, she thinks she's finally figured out a way to make it real.

It's not until Finn's face appears blurry before her that she realizes they're no longer kissing and that her eyes have filled with tears.

"Rach?...Are you okay?" he asks, looking down at her in confusion.

Her vision clears as she blinks the tears away, chuckling a bit in embarrassment. They're not tears of sadness. She doesn't quite know what they actually _are_ of, but thinks something's just occurred to her that she might not have the time or the capacity to say to him right now. "Finn, I…I..."

"Rachel?" a familiar voice interrupts before she can piece together any of the words in her head.

She turns toward the open door where Artie's parked in his wheelchair. He's eyeing both her and Finn a bit quizzically (and rightfully so, given the tear tracks running down her face). "Oh, h-hi Artie," she stammers. "I was just...we were…"

"Is everything okay, Rachel?" Artie asks.

"Yes! Fine! Great!" she says with a truckload of enthusiasm.

Her director's bemused look remains in tact as she rearranges her face in search of an expression that will make her appear less insane. Meanwhile Finn smiles politely, breaking the awkward silence by extending his hand out to shake Artie's. Artie eyes him skeptically, not entirely amused by this display; it's less than ten minutes until showtime and some tall stranger has his star performer in tears.

"It's okay, Artie," she says, attempting to put his mind at ease. "This is Finn. He's my...my Finn." That last part she adds as her gaze drifts slowly over to the handsome man beside her, the most starry-eyed, dopey expression ever on her face when she sees him smiling back down at her.

Yeah, Artie's _definitely_ not comforted by her sudden flakiness, not to mention her inability to form sentences that have beginnings and ends. She'd consider his wariness valid if it weren't for the inner revelation she's just stumbled upon. So, instead of attempting to convince her director that his star performer is _not_ , in fact, having a psychotic episode, she simply takes comfort in her own certainty that his faith will be adequately restored after tonight's performance.

"You're on in five, Berry," Tina says as she whizzes by, her head hovering above Artie's for just moment as she gives Rachel her final warning before showtime.

Artie sighs, wishing her a half-hearted "good luck," the look on his face silently begging her to get her shit together as he turns and rolls away. Little does he know she's just been hit by a tidal wave of inspiration (in the _best_ possible way). She can't _wait_ to get out there and channel it all into her performance.

The usual pre-show chaos ensues, Quinn hurries in to do a quick touch up on her make-up while Rachel runs through a few last minute vocal exercises. Everything's frantic and a blur, but in the midst of it all she's aware of Finn's hand inside hers, his voice in her ear whispering "break a leg" just before she steps out on stage in front of the drawn curtain.

The curtain draws up, and...wow. The show is _amazing_. She's never felt so engaged as an actress, the emotions Finn's stirred inside her making her come alive, the realness of what she feels literally seeping through her pores, authenticating every gesture, every line out of her character's mouth. She's pretty sure there might actually be stars shooting out of her eyes, fireworks exploding above her head as she (her character) professes her "love" for Jesse (whom she's imagining to be Finn).

Jesse's noticeably suspicious, not to mention baffled by the dramatic shift in her demeanor. Oh well. He doesn't have to know who or what inspired the change. She's the star, after all. The more her performance improves, the better off she and everyone else involved with the production will be in the long run.

Everyone is buzzing backstage after the show. A critic from the New York Times practically begs her for an interview. Finn's there too, the proud smile on his face empowering her more than the thunderous applause from the audience or the lavish praise currently being showered upon her by the cast and crew. Artie especially can't stop raving about her performance.

"Rachel I-I'm speechless!" Artie exclaims. "You were _amazing_ , absolutely amazing out there! What on earth came over you?"

She smiles, not exactly knowing herself how to articulate an answer to that question. Artie is far too overcome with excitement and relief to press for an explanation anyway, and she watches as he quickly diverts his attention to the flock of journalists lining up to snag an interview with him.

"Congratulations, Rachel."

She turns and sees Jesse leaning against the wall, his voice full of its usual insincerity as he eyes both her and Finn contemptuously.

"Looks like you found your muse," he continues.

Rachel glances up at Finn, sees his jaw tightening as he looks down at the shorter man, his eyes burning with a mutual dislike. She sighs. "Look Jesse, I think it would be best if you and I just kept our distance off stage from now on."

"That's going to be rather difficult tomorrow morning, don't you think?"

"Tomorrow morning?" she asks, her brow furrowed in confusion. 'What's happening then?"

Jesse smirks as he shakes his head. "I guess you weren't listening when Artie ordered us to have coffee together. You know, sort of like a _date_."

"Wait, what?" she asks incredulously. "I am _not_ going on a date with you Jesse. Besides, I think tonight's performance speaks for itself. No need to spend anymore time together than necessary."

Jesse just shrugs, the smirk of satisfaction etching itself deeper into his features. "Sorry, director's orders," he tells her. He then looks up at Finn. "I hope this is cool with you, _dude bro_."

"It's not," Finn says coldly. "But I trust Rachel, and I think she's made herself clear about how she feels about you."

Rachel squeezes Finn's hand tighter as she challenges Jesse's vindictive glare with one of her own. "I'll do whatever I have to do for my career, Jesse. You're my romantic co-star and if getting to know you on a more personal level will strengthen the authenticity of our performances, then I'm perfectly willing to endure it."

"How professional of you," Jesse says arrogantly. "I'll text you in the morning with a time and a place. Looking forward it."

He flashes her a phony grin, shooting Finn a quick glare before he disappears into his dressing room. Rachel groans in exasperation. "I can't _believe_ I have to hang out with him tomorrow! I don't even remember agreeing to it."

"Oh well, as long as it's just a work thing," Finn shrugs, giving her hand a comforting squeeze.

" _Definitely_ just a work thing," she assures him.

"Miss Berry!" a voice calls out just before a flash of a camera that nearly blinds her. She blinks her eyes a bit irritably, recognizing one of the more annoyingly aggressive reporters from Broadway dot com. Jacob-something she thinks is his name. "So who's the new man?" Jacob asks her, gesturing to Finn.

She looks over at Finn who's standing a bit awkwardly beside her, a nervous smile on his face. They aren't holding hands or doing anything "coupley" at the moment, but it's inevitable that a gossip monger like Jew Fro would try to link her to any man standing as close to her as Finn is right now. "You know I don't discuss my personal life with the media Jacob," she states firmly.

"But you should," Jacob argues, his eyes fixated on her a bit creepily. "All the Broadway blogs have been buzzing about your _rumored romance_ with _charismatic co-star_ Jesse St. James. I could introduce a love triangle scenario into the mix and make it the biggest Broadway scandal since...well, you might actually be the first."

"No thank you," she insists. "You can print whatever gossip you want, but I plan on building a career that's based on my _talent_ , not my tabloid marketability."

"Oh, well that's where me and the Streisand wannabe are different," Mercedes suddenly intervenes, stepping between Rachel and Jacob as she offers her hand out to shake with Jew Fro. "Mercedes Evans Jones," she introduces herself. "I'm the _real_ talent you should be fixated on. And baby you can print as many damn lies about me as you want! Ain't no such thing as bad press in my book. Tell 'em I'm cheating on my husband with Barack Obama if you want to!"

"Wait you're Sam Evans' wife, aren't you?" Jacob asks, his interest piquing.

"That's right," Mercedes affirms, pride evident in her voice. "My husband _just so happens_ to be the future starting quarterback of The New York Giants."

Rachel notices the twinkle in Mercedes' eye as she glances over at Finn, winking at him before turning her attention back to Jew Fro and his camera lens. She looks up at Finn, who looks visibly unnerved despite the polite grin plastered on his face.

"Tell me everything," Jacob says hungrily. "Does your husband manscape? Is it true that he's a natural blonde or does he dye his hair?"

"Oh yeah yeah we'll get to all of that after we talk more about _me_ ," Mercedes says as she motions for Rachel and Finn to step aside.

Rachel rolls her eyes. Normally she'd go to whatever lengths necessary to keep the spotlight focused on her, but in this case she's more than happy to share it with her rival co-star if it means getting Jew Fro off her back. "He's all yours," she says dryly.

"Thanks," Mercedes grins. "Oh and by the way...you did good tonight, midget Barbra."

Rachel can't help but smile at the rare compliment. "Thank you," she says softly. "You were great too...as always."

"Why thank you," Mercedes shoots her another grin before deadpanning. "Now get the hell outta my spotlight."

Despite her annoyance Rachel gladly moves aside. She looks apologetically up at Finn, who seems to read her mind as he motions for her to follow him down the hall toward her dressing room (but not before Jacob snaps a few more photos of them together). Once inside the quiet confines of the small room, she can't help but fall immediately into him. He wraps her up in his strong arms, lifting her off her feet slightly as she sighs in relief against the crook of his neck.

She never thought she'd be dodging reporters, literally _hiding_ from the glare of the spotlight because it was all too much and not worth it. She never thought she'd chose _this_ over all of that, but truthfully, there's no amount of media attention or lavishing of praise that could pry her from Finn's embrace.

"I'm sorry about all that," she says after they pull away. "It's not usually such a media frenzy after the show."

"Well I think you really impressed them tonight," Finn tells her. "I'm sure you were incredible, Rach. I just wish I could've been in the audience instead of backstage."

She wants to tell him he _was_ out there on stage with her tonight, in more ways than he could ever realize. "Finn, you were…" she begins, words failing her once again. "Well, I'm just so happy you're here."

"Me too," he smiles, leaning in to kiss her forehead. "I think maybe I should leave, though...you should be out there soaking in all the praise, like you deserve. You shouldn't be holed up in your dressing room, hiding from it all."

She looks up at him before pulling him in for a deep kiss. "I think I'm right where I'm supposed to be," she whispers against his lips. They both share soft smiles as she reaches for his hand, lacing their fingers. "Come on, let's get out of here."

A barrage of reporters practically pounces on her as soon as she exits her dressing room. Finn throws his arm around her, holding her close as together they make their way down the crowded hallway toward the back door. She sighs in relief once they're out, free from the suffocating chaos going on inside. A crowd of fans have gathered by the back door, all of them shouting her name. She beams with pride as she stops to sign a few autographs and pose for photos, Finn's smile and nod assuring her that he doesn't mind standing by and waiting.

Twenty minutes later they're walking side by side down a quiet New York back street, both of them opting to enjoy the crisp night air rather than take another stuffy cab ride home.

 _Home._

They're heading in the general direction of where both their apartments are located, but still it's not entirely clear where either of them will end up. Rachel's head is still swimming from the events of tonight, so much so that she barely hears Finn when he asks her if she's hungry.

Is she? She's not sure, because right now she only knows what her heart knows. She stops in her tracks, turning so she's looking up at him. "Finn, I…" she begins a bit nervously. "I want to see where you live, Finn...will you take me?"

He smiles softly, his eyes flickering with warmth, like candles in a window. She smiles too as she feels him reach for her hand.

* * *

His apartment's a mess. It never looks the way a guy's apartment _should_ look when he brings a girl home for the first time. It's not an all-out frat house at least, but it definitely reeks of "I'm a single dude who eats all of his meals standing up in front of the kitchen sink."

Truth be told, it's never really been much of a concern of his. Needless to say, none of the one-night stands or sporadic hook-ups he's had over the past few years have ever stuck around long enough to contest the cleanliness of his bachelor pad. If anything he always saw it as a welcome deterrent. Anything to keep his "lady friends" from thinking he was relationship material.

But all of that's out the window now as he somewhat hastily welcomes Rachel into his man cave. He's certain she's never seen such filth in her life - dishes stacked in the sink, laundry draped over the backs of the furniture. He silently curses himself for being such a slob, wishing he could just snap his fingers and go all Mary Poppins on the place.

"Sorry," he apologizes, smiling weakly. "I wasn't exactly, um...expecting anybody."

"It's fine," she chuckles, much to his relief. "This is a charming little place you have here."

"You're not _that_ good of an actress, Rach," he smiles, narrowing his eyes playfully.

She laughs, "Well let's just say it's got potential."

Their eyes linger on one other's for a long beat, their light-hearted grins fading into heavier, more vulnerable expressions of what they're both feeling beneath the surface of it all. She's the first to close the gap between them, pressing her lips against his in a kiss that's both tender and charged with a thousand things. When they break, she gazes up at him, her lips curling into a faint grin, her eyes maintaining their intensity as they pierce straight into his.

"I, um...I did something illegal at work the other day," he suddenly feels compelled to tell her. It's the first time he's admitted it out loud to anyone. He watches as her hint of a smile fades, her brow furrowing only slightly as she looks at him searchingly, and without judgement, imploring him to elaborate on what he just said. "It was a business transaction," he continues, his voice a bit ragged. "An underhanded one. If anyone finds out I'll be fired...possibly even put in jail."

He doesn't even know why he said it. The words just sort of spring out of him, but he thinks somehow he knows, he just _knows_ she'll understand everything.

She surveys him in heavy silence for what feels like the longest time, finally pursing her lips before saying, "That's why she winked at you backstage tonight, wasn't it? Mercedes, I mean."

He nods slowly, his head hung low as his eyes remain focused on hers unwaveringly. As random, and perhaps slightly idiotic as it was, he feels relief now that he's just revealed all this to her. He doubts if he would've ever told anyone else in the entire world.

"Well," she begins resolutely after another lengthy silence, "I'm sure you did what you thought was best at the time."

He thinks that's probably the best thing anyone's ever said to him, ever said to _anybody_ in his whole life. He's not sure what he ever did to deserve the benefit of the doubt from this beautiful woman standing before him, but he at least knows enough not to question it. All he can do is attempt to contain the swollen heart inside his chest and be eternally grateful.

She's looking up at him, her brown eyes swirling like chocolate lava. If it's possible to shiver and feel indescribably warm all at once, that's exactly how he feels right now.

He lays her down on his bed, the soft darkness of the room both revealing and concealing everything now, and in the best, most vulnerable way. He's so absurdly nervous. She has to coax him out and sooth him into her, because he's certain that one false move on his part would shatter and break them in the moment.

But nothing is broken and everything is safe. He holds her so incredibly close, she shivers and sings, so loud like there's a whole choir of voices in his ear, a thousand different versions of her indescribable beauty.

" _Finn_ ," she gasps.

"I know…"

It's not like going over the edge. It's more like he's been in a constant state of falling for many years, and now, finally, he's landed safely on his own two feet.

* * *

 **TBC...**


	7. Rather Be

**Hey guys! I meant to post this sooner but wanted to pack in as much Finchel fluff as possible. Thanks to all who read and reviewed the last chapter! You guys have been so awesome :)**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

She sits on the edge of her bed, combing her fingers through his hair as he sleeps. It's still early, and she wishes more than anything that she could just stay here burrowed in the soft sheets with him for the better part of the day.

There's no denying it. She loves him. It hit her last night at the theatre and she's sort of been reeling from the intensity of it ever since. He's her first love; her one and her only. Of course there had been others, and prior to meeting Finn she'd been shuffling along, stumbling, looking for "love" in all the wrong places, as though it were something to actually _find_ hiding somewhere under a rock, and not to be realized from deep within.

It isn't like she thought it would be. It isn't like coming home. It's like she's already _been_ home, but in the dark, and waiting for someone (Finn) to turn on all the lights and say hello.

Anyway. That's what's swirling around in her heart and in her head as his light snoring fills the room with a sound she never thought would ring like music to her ears. It makes it that much harder to wrench herself away and go do the thing she has to do that she really, _really_ doesn't want to do. Her phone's already blowing up (well, _silently_ blowing up) with texts from both Jesse and Artie ordering her to be at _this_ coffee shop at _this_ time, and not to be late.

 _Meh_. Oh well. At least Finn understands it's strictly a work thing. It may as well be an acting exercise for all the fake pleasantries she plans on exchanging with Jesse throughout this absurd "date" her director has assigned them to go on. All this she assured Finn of late last night when they were both talking quietly with their heads on the same pillow. But Finn understands, and he gets it. He just smiled and told her to do whatever's necessary to keep her career on track.

And this is what she has to do, apparently (and unfortunately).

So, after a lot of internal groaning and last-minute contemplation (what illness could she fake that would get her out of this, and is her conscience too big to pull the old "family emergency" excuse?) she finally figures she should get up and get dressed, because yeah, she's still wearing a bed sheet.

* * *

Actually, it's not that bad. Well, it is _that bad_ , in a sense that it's even happening to begin with, but it's not _so_ God awful that she's tempted to throw her piping hot beverage in his face like she'd planned. Surprisingly the whole thing has gone a lot smoother than she anticipated it would, because really, how hard is it to just sit and listen to another person talk about themselves while you pretend to care?

Actually it's really hard, and it sucks. It's like, _so annoying_ when people do that! She hadn't realized until recently what unattractive qualities certain people can possess ( _hey shut up, Rachel Berry is NOTHING like Jesse St. James! She is humble, self-effacing, and she NEVER talks too much about herself, EVER_ ).

Anyway...she's just trying to do her part and contribute a sufficient number of uh-huhs and smile-and-nods to the very one-sided conversation she's found herself in. Whatever will have Artie convinced that she and her co-star are (after one hour of "quality time" spent together) the dynamic duo he needs them to be.

"Rachel…?"

She flinches as Jesse snaps a finger in her face, effectively snapping her back to earth. "Oh," she utters dumbly. "I, uh...sorry...what?"

"I just told you about the time my appendix burst on stage during a performance of _Rent_ and you said 'Oh, how nice.'"

"Oh," she says again. "Well I-I just figured something like that would've only _strengthened_ your performance, in that the pain of your appendicitis would've served to authenticate the character of Roger's inner torment and disillusionment, both of which are prominent themes throughout the story."

She feels like she just word-vomited all over the table in front of her. She's not sure any of it made sense, or if there were enough compliments thrown in there to make Jesse buy into it. Much to her relief, he just looks at her, and, after deadpanning for several moments, smiles in agreement with whatever it is she just pulled out of her you-know-what. "That's what the critics all said," he says with an air of pride. "And despite spending the night in the emergency room, I still consider it my most revered performance to date."

"Right," she says. "Great. Hey, do you think we could wrap this up in the next few minutes? Not that I'm not enjoying myself - because I obviously am, but it's just, I have some errands to run before we're due back at the theatre. And I think Artie would be satisfied with the all the, _uhm_ , the bonding we've done here today. I know _I_ feel a lot closer to you as an actor and I'm confident that tonight's performance will reflect that."

That last part she adds for good measure, even though the words leave a bad taste on her tongue as she speaks them. Truth be told, she's dying to sprint back to her apartment and steal a few moments with Finn, if he hasn't already left for work yet. She can't let Jesse know this, of course, and she just hopes the cringe-smile on her face and sugar-coated pleasantries she's offered over the course of the hour have been at least faintly convincing. Unfortunately all it takes is one look at him, the way his eyes narrow in on hers suspiciously, for her to realize he's not buying into her little charade.

"Why don't you cut the crap, Rachel?" he asks.

She holds his gaze across the table for a moment, her lips pursing slightly before she blows out an exasperated sigh. "Cut what crap, Jesse?" she asks irritably. "I'm just doing what I have to do, and saying whatever I have to say that will keep Artie off our backs for the time being. I'm at least _trying_ to make this easier on both of us, can't you see that?"

"Oh Rachel," he begins, surprising her a bit as he leans in toward her side of the table, his eyes softening slightly as he looks at her. "Why don't you realize how easy all of this actually _could_ be?"

She thinks she knows what he's getting at - it's not the first time this has come up - and so she sighs heavily once again, her tone dropping slightly as she tells him, "Look I'm sorry Jesse, but I thought I made it clear that I wanted things to remain strictly professional between the two of us. Whatever romantic feelings you might have for me are-"

"I don't," Jesse interrupts her.

"What?"

"I don't have romantic feelings for you," he tells her matter of factly.

"You don't...uh, oh…" she stammers, now slightly embarrassed (but not more so than she is annoyed).

"You're not my type, if you want to know the honest truth," he continues point-blankly. "You're an insufferable know-it-all who talks way too much about herself. It's obnoxious."

"Wait a minute...you think _I_ talk too much about myself?" she practically shouts indignantly.

"As a matter of fact, yes. Any respectable Reality TV Show judge would tell you it's one of your worst qualities."

"Oh really? Well, let me tell you what I think are a few of _your_ worst qualities. First off, you are-"

"Rachel, Rachel," he interrupts her again. "Come on now, this is silly. You and I both know we could be of great advantage to one another if we - well, if _you_ were willing to put your ego in check and give in to the inevitable.

She rolls her eyes, her nerves on fire with annoyance. She takes a sip of her lukewarm coffee, her eyes glaring out over the round brim of the cup as she seriously contemplates tossing the whole thing in his face. She needs a refill. "I don't have the slightest idea what you're getting at," she tells him pointedly.

He chuckles lightly before reclining back leisurely in his chair. "I'm talking about you and me becoming Broadway's new power couple," he explains. "Think Taye Diggs and Idina Menzel. You sort of look like her, you know."

"Yes, well, you sort of _don't_ look anything like Taye Diggs, for obvious reasons. Anyway, I don't know why we're still discussing this when it's clear neither of us harbors romantic feelings for one another."

"Who said anything about feelings?" Jesse asks bluntly. "I'm talking about a strictly PR relationship, one that the public could latch onto and romanticize in an attempt to project their unfulfilled romantic fantasies onto us. Sounds great, doesn't it?"

"No, as a matter of fact it does not," she states with conviction. "And I don't know what gave you the impression that I have any intention of becoming one of _those_ kinds of celebrities."

"What other kind is there?" he asks innocently.

She rolls her eyes, "Oh I don't know, maybe the kind that relies on talent and professionalism rather than scandals and petty gossip?"

He chuckles at her again. "Oh Rachel. It's so endearing that you even think that kind of celebrity still exists. Well I hate to burst your bubble, but it unfortunately does not. Talent is boring and nobody cares."

"That is completely-"

"It's true," he cuts her off. "Talent is just a byproduct of fame, but the fame _has_ to come first. This day in age the public won't even glance in your direction unless you give them something juicy to sink their teeth into."

She rolls her eyes for the upteenth time, about ready to grab her purse and leave. "Well, as much as I appreciate your unsolicited advice, I think I'll be steering clear of any PR schemes for the time being. Besides, I'm...I'm seeing someone, and I don't think he'd appreciate me masquerading as another man's girlfriend."

"It won't work," Jesse says with full conviction.

"Excuse me?"

"It won't work," he repeats. "Not you and that skyscraper you're dating."

"Oh, and why's that?" she asks, anger pulsing hotly between her ears.

"It's not aesthetically pleasing to the public eye," Jesse explains, shrugging casually. "The two of you on the red carpet would look like some kind of genetically modified circus act. They'll think you're a woodland creature standing next to the tallest tree in the forest. I doubt if the photographers would even be able to fit both of you together in the same frame. You and I on the other hand - we look perfectly matched. The fans would start shipping us in a heartbeat."

"Shipping us?" she asks confusedly. "You mean like in the mail?"

"Haven't you ever been on tumblr? It's internet lingo for 'I need this couple to bang so I can feel things.' It's sort of pathetic, which is why I assumed you'd heard of it before. Anyway, if you'd been trolling Jacob Israel's blog like I have you'd know that the comment sections are already buzzing with die-hard St. Berry shippers."

"I'm sorry, what?" she asks, more confused than ever.

"St. Berry," he repeats. "It's our ship name."

"Well, forget it," she huffs. "It sounds like the name of a church, and you and I don't practice the same religion, so I don't really see it working out. Besides, my love life is _none of their business_. Why on earth would I take a stranger's opinion into account when it comes to my relationships? It's ridiculous. Next thing you know people will be telling me I should date Quinn Fabray."

"Now _that_ would be hot."

Rachel just groans. This little "coffee date" is shaping up to be an even bigger disaster than she anticipated. However, despite her utter disdain for everything Jesse's suggesting, she knows he does have a point, in his own twisted way. Surely she's fudged the truth and told a few white lies of her own throughout the course of her budding career. All of it was only ever for the purpose of advancing her forward, and because nothing in show business is real, not _really_. But faking a relationship? Now that's not a level she could imagine herself stooping toward. Perhaps as a young ingenue she would've considered it, but not now, and not ever again. She has too much to lose.

 _Finn_.

"You know what," she begins, a hard finality in her tone as she prepares to shut the door once and for all on Jesse's insane proposition. "If certain fans want to live vicariously through my love life, fine, but I'm certainly not interested in pandering to their ideas of who I should or shouldn't be romantically involved with. If that's the only thing piquing their interest in my career, well, they can jump ship as far as I'm concerned - and _good riddance_." She tosses back the remainder of her coffee, slamming the cup down as if to punctuate her last statement.

"Rachel, your integrity is incredibly inspiring," Jesse says monotonously.

"Why _thank you_ ," she replies bitingly.

"But you say all of this as if you think _I'm_ the one who needs convincing," he continues. "I don't. I fully recognize the shallowness of what I'm proposing. But the thing is, I don't make the rules, I just play the game."

"It's not a game to me, Jesse," she tells him. "But you go ahead and keep playing yours. I'm not interested."

Their eyes remain locked in a stare-down, Rachel standing her ground unfazedly, needing to show Jesse she means business. "Fine," he states after a long beat, shrugging his shoulders casually as if it's no big thing. "I respect your wishes, Rachel. And I do apologize if I upset you."

She narrows her gaze at him, a bit wary of his willingness to sweep the whole thing under the rug all of a sudden. She doesn't miss the conniving twinkle still lingering in his eyes, one that suggests he's only backing down for the time being. "Well I...thank you," she sort of forces out, not really intending to _thank_ him for anything whatsoever, but too exhausted to put up a fight at this point.

"This has been fun," he says, a polite smile plastered on his face as he reaches for his phone. "So, are you ready to take our selfie?"

"Huh?" she asks. "What selfie?"

"Artie's orders," Jesse explains. "We're supposed to text him a pic from our bonding session, which, I think we can both agree has been a _stunning_ success."

Rachel groans inaudibly, not at all enthused by the idea. Jesse, for whatever reason, appears willing to put on a good face and do whatever's required for the two of them to complete Artie's assignment with a passing grade. "All right, let's just do it now I guess," she agrees reluctantly as she leans in towards Jesse.

"Great," Jesse says, extending his arm and angling the camera until they're both centered within the frame. Rachel does her best to shine on what she hopes is a sincere enough smile, despite feeling more disenchanted by her co-star than ever before. He takes a handful of photos, her face deadpanning the moment he pulls the camera away.

"I'm sure Artie will be pleased," Jesse says, scrolling through all the photos he just took (probably in search of the one that's most flattering to him).

"He better be," Rachel grumbles under her breath. She's certain she couldn't possibly withstand another hour alone with this man if her career depended on it. "Well, enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Jesse," she says, gathering her purse and standing up from her chair as her feet practically scramble out the door without her.

"Going home to your boyfriend?" Jesse asks, the contempt resurfacing in his tone as he glares up at her.

She throws her purse over her shoulder, placing her other hand on her hip as she gives him a pointed look. "Well that's none of you or anyone else's business, is it?" she snaps. "Although I am going to get another coffee before I go."

He rolls his eyes. "Don't bother. The service here is deplorable. I asked for a refill twenty minutes ago and they still haven't brought it to the table."

"It's a _Starbucks_ , Jesse," she tells him. "You actually have to go up to the counter if you want to place an order."

"Oh," he says. He then grabs his empty cup and holds it out to her. "Hey, would you grab me a refill?"

* * *

"Thank God," she mutters as soon as the door closes behind her. She's certain she just survived one of the most annoying hours of her life (and has a selfie to prove it).

She hears her phone buzzing inside her purse and thinks she might actually have to throw it in front of a moving car if she sees Jesse's name on the screen. The name she actually does see makes her smile brightly, possibly the only expression of sincere happiness to cross her face since she left her apartment earlier that morning.

 **Baby I had to head into work for a little while. I hope everything went well this morning. I'll talk to you later...xoxo Finn :)**

She sighs in disappointment when she sees that he's already left her apartment. The thought of crawling back into bed with him for a few stolen moments had made her all the more eager to hurry things along with Jesse. Her smile returns, however, when she remembers why she ordered the extra cup of coffee.

* * *

"Oh come on Hudson, do a shot with us!" Sam urges. You're the man of the hour - hell, you're the man of the _year_ as far as I'm concerned."

"I'm good, guys, I'm good," Finn declines. "It's only eleven-thirty in the morning, you know."

"That never stopped you before, bro," Puck looks at him in question. It's the same look he's been giving him ever since Finn secured Sam's contract with the Giants. Despite being in celebratory mode, he knows Puck and Jake are both on edge wondering if this whole thing is going to backfire and go to shit. Finn can't say he's surprised. Puck knows him too well not to be at least a little bit suspicious of just how exactly he'd managed to pull everything together so conveniently, and at the very last minute. He might not know any specifics about the shady, and very _illegal_ deal Finn made with Ken Tanaka...but he at least knows there's something to know.

Thankfully Sam's head is far too high up in the clouds for him to notice anything peculiar about his agent. The pretty blonde quarterback merely rolls his eyes in annoyance when Finn declines to partake in the round of tequila shots that Sam, Puck, and Jake are currently doing in the middle of his office.

Finn doesn't feel like doing tequila shots in the middle of his office. He doesn't want the fruit basket Mercedes sent him as a thank you. He just...doesn't feel like celebrating, and that much he makes clear as he orders the three men to take their little pow-wow elsewhere.

"C'mon guys, I've got work to do," he tells them. "Get the hell out."

The three men reluctantly shuffle out the door, not before calling him lame, a pussy, etc. Finn sighs in relief when they're gone, not at all in the mood for their drunken shenanigans this morning. He groans irritably when he hears a knock on his door no more than thirty seconds later, shouting, "Puck, I told you I had work to do!"

All irritation escapes him however as the door opens timidly and Rachel's head pokes through. "Rachel," he says, feeling his whole demeanor shift to a completely different gear, his spirits immediately lifting at the sight of her wide doe eyes peering out at him.

"Um, hi," she says, chuckling shyly. "Is it okay if I come in?"

"Of course," he assures her, standing from his chair and approaching her as she closes the door behind her. He pulls her in for a hug, careful of the coffee cup he notices in her hand. "You can't even imagine how happy I am to see you," he tells her, his hands lingering on her shoulders as he slowly pulls away.

"Surprised?" she asks, smiling adorably up at him.

"Very pleasantly surprised," he smiles back. "I'm sorry I missed you this morning. How did it go? With-with Jesse and everything…"

She rolls her eyes, the heavy sigh she expels causing her bangs to flutter against her forehead. "It was about as awful as I anticipated - possibly even more so," she says wearily. "But I survived! And I brought coffee."

He chuckles as she hands him the to-go cup. "Thanks baby," he says, placing a soft kiss against her cheek. "You and a coffee are pretty much _exactly_ what I needed."

"Well I put about a half a cup of sugar in it. I hope that's enough."

Finn shrugs. "I do like a little coffee with my sugar," he says, grinning down at her. "Although you could've just stuck your finger in it if you wanted to make it sweet."

She chuckles at him, and he chuckles too, at himself, because it's sort of funny what a cornball he is when he's not trying to...well, when he's not trying to be _anything_ or anyone other than himself. He's really just a big tall awkward dork with no game. Well wait a minute, that's not fair, and he _does so_ have game! I mean, _clearly_ whatever he's doing is working on Rachel, who's smiling and laughing adoringly at the incredibly cheese bucket thing he just said. _But dude, that's the point!_ As soon as he _stopped_ playing games, those suave womanizer ones he'd played like a sport in the past, that's when it all clicked into place and became real, realer than he thought it could ever get with anyone.

"Are you okay, honey?" Rachel asks.

"Huh? Oh yeah," he says upon stirring from his momentary daze, the look on Rachel's face literally melting him into a warm puddle of goo. "So, do you have time to go grab lunch?"

"I don't, unfortunately," she says, her shoulders sagging in disappointment. "I have too many errands to run before I'm due back at the theatre. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he tells her, wishing he could spend more time with her but understanding the type of schedule she's on. Plus he's at work, so he should probably like...work. He already showed up late this morning and now here he is wanting to take a lunch break that would probably last all day if it were up to him.

He gets the feeling Rachel feels much the same as she scrunches her nose in a pouty way, heaving a weary sigh as she looks longingly up at him. "I'm sorry," she apologizes again. "But I...I mean I assume I'll see you later tonight?" she asks shyly.

"Of course," he assures her. "I wouldn't miss it."

"Good," she says, smiling brightly. "I really do love having you there. Although, I'm afraid my train of free tickets is about to come to an abrupt end. With the show gaining more popularity the producers are really cracking down. I guess they want to make sure all the tickets are going to people who are actually-"

"Paying for them?" he asks, smirking playfully.

"Kinda, yeah," she chuckles. Her smile fades, her eyes intensifying as she gazes at up at him. "I wish you could be there every night," she admits. "I wish you could...I just…"

She trails off, stumbling over the beginnings of thoughts she can't seem to let herself finish, struggling as though something on the other side is threatening to break loose if she doesn't keep reigning it all in.

"I know, Rach," he speaks up, hoping to relieve some of the tension in her face. "I _will_ be there. I'll buy tickets and come to every show if you want me to."

"No Finn," she discourages. "That's just silly."

"No it's not," he says, shaking his head, his face serious as he brings one hand to cup her cheek, stroking it lightly with his thumb. "I want to be there. I want to be wherever you want me to be. And it's no trouble...okay?"

Her eyes fall closed for a moment as she covers his hand with her own, sighing deeply. "Thank you," she whispers. Her lashes flutter and she chuckles lightly in attempt to shake off the strange burst of emotion that she's a bit embarrassed by. "You know, I never would've pegged you for the Broadway type, Mr. Finn Hudson. I'll admit, I'm still surprised at how much you seem to love the show."

"I love _you_ ," he states, the words flying off his tongue unfiltered, his breath catching in his throat immediately as he scrambles to recover. "I mean I-I love seeing you perform. You're the reason the show is so amazing, Rach. Anyone in their right mind would be blown away by your performance."

She's looking at him, obviously having absorbed those three words he'd blurted out initially. Her face is unreadable, sort of like she's flipping through a catalogue of expressions as she searches for an appropriate one. She finally settles on what is pretty much her resting Rachel face, her eyes wide with intrigue, a soft smile pulling at her lips as they share a look that's a whole lot deeper than either are willing to acknowledge at that point in time.

"I think somehow I'm more amazing when you're there," she tells him after a long beat.

"I'm there," he whispers, his voice more sincere than even his own ears have ever heard it. "I'm wherever you want me to be...always."

* * *

Rachel feels light as a feather, her feet practically skipping as she makes her way along the crowded city street. She should probably wipe the grin off her face before someone suspects her of being a terrorist or something. She certainly looks out of place among the stern-looking, fast-walking New Yorkers, none of whom are in the mood for any of her Little Miss Sunshine crap on this dreary weekday afternoon. It would probably take a cold, hard slap across the face in order to dampen her spirits at this point. As much as she wishes she were spending the entire day with Finn, it feels like a part of him is still with her instead of back at his office where she left him only moments ago. It's the thought that keeps a smile on her face and a pep in her step as she carries on with the remainder of her day.

"Rachel?" a familiar voice calls out to her.

Her head turns in the direction of the voice, her eyes immediately landing on her friend Blaine. "Blaine? Oh my God, hi!" she shrieks excitedly as she pulls him in for a hug.

"It's so good to see you!" he exclaims, embracing her tightly.

"You too," she tells him genuinely. He's one of her only friends from NYADA, the two of them having gone through all the growing pains of being performing arts majors, even living together for a short time after graduation. They're not as close as they used to be of course, but the bond still remains strong. She breaks the hug, immediately taking note of the unusual way that he's dressed. His signature bow-tie and collared shirt are gone, replaced by a tight leather jacket and leather pants, making him look like something straight out of the 1950's. "What's with the outfit?" she asks, scrunching her nose a bit as she surveys his attire.

"Oh I'm trying out for the part of Danny Zuko in a charity revival of _Grease_ ," he explains. "I'm on my way to my audition, actually."

"Oh! Well that's great! I'm sure you'll make an excellent Danny. Come on, let me hear your John Travolta 'ho, ho, ho' laugh."

"Well actually, that's not the part I'm concerned about," Blaine says nervously.

"What are you concerned about? You're the perfect Danny Zuko if I ever saw one."

"Well thanks, but I think I could be a little _more_ perfect, if you know what I mean."

She shakes her head, "Not following you."

Blaine sighs, "Well it's just that for the audition I have to do the opening scene at the beach, you know, where they kiss and stuff. They've already cast the role of Sandy and she and I have to do a love scene together so they can assess our chemistry and whatnot."

"Well that makes sense," Rachel reasons. "Don't you think?

"Sure, but you know that kissing girls isn't exactly my strong point, being that I'm...you know, the way that I am. I'm just worried they're going to spot some sort of inauthenticity in my performance and not give me the part."

"You're going to be fine," Rachel assures him, touching his leather-clad arm affectionately. "You're a fantastic kisser no matter who it's with. I would know, wouldn't I?"

Yes, she most certainly _would_ know, given the amount of times she and Blaine had locked lips over the years. They used to sort of "practice" on one another, back when they were a couple of wide-eyed young ingenues, both having little to no experience in that department. Blaine was still in the closet back then, and his lack of... _excitement_ during some of their more heated make-out sessions used to frustrate and discourage her. That is until he finally assured her that his underwhelmment had nothing to do with her abilities and everything to do with the fact that he was, well, gayer than a damn picnic basket.

"Thanks Rach," Blaine says, leaning in to plant a kiss on her cheek. He pulls away, his features suddenly brightening as an idea flashes in his mind. "Hey, do you think you could do me a favor?"

"Anything for you, my dear," she smiles. "What is it?"

"Kiss me," Blaine says.

"What?"

"Just kiss me right now so I can see if I have anything to worry about."

"Umm, well…" she trails off hesitantly. She feels a little weird about just kissing him right there on the street. They aren't kids experimenting with each other's tonsils anymore, but then she figures oh well, she's only helping out a friend, and lord knows neither one of them is going to feel anything below the waist when their lips touch. "Okay," she finally agrees. "But make it quick. And no tongue!"

Blaine chuckles. "Rach you do realize that kissing you is like kissing my sister? I think I can hold off on the tongue." He leans in, capturing her lips in a firm, yet relatively chaste kiss. When he pulls away he looks at her in question, eager for the verdict.

"I'd say you've still got it," Rachel says, winking playfully.

"Really? So you think I've got a shot at the part?"

"Face it, those lips are your prize winners, Blaine Anderson," she says with conviction. "You're going to kiss your way to the top, just like you always planned."

"Very funny," he chuckles. "Thanks for the help, Rach. I owe you one."

"Well I don't know how you intend on repaying me for _that_ ," she jokes, "But don't mention it. Now go kiss that Sandy girl like you just kissed me and I'm sure you'll knock her socks off."

"I will," he says, pulling her in for another hug.

They say goodbye, promising to get together for drinks soon, before going their separate ways. As she goes about running her errands, it occurs to her that she really should've told Blaine about her new awesome technique for doing a love scene with a person you can't stand (or in Blaine's case, are biologically unable to feel any physical attraction towards). She should've told him how easy it is, and that all you have to do is picture someone who actually _does_ get your heart pounding, your toes curling involuntarily as you imagine their skin against yours.

Oh well, she thinks. Better to not give _all_ her trade secrets away.

* * *

Tonight's performance is even better than the last. She knows Finn is watching from somewhere among the packed house, and her goal is to make everyone in the audience feel what she feels when she imagines his warm smile greeting her after the show, his arms wrapping around her as he whispers things meant for only her ears to hear. She thinks she does a pretty good job of doing so, and the thunderous applause and numerous ovations after the curtain draws to a close assures her of it.

Afterwards it's a media frenzy, even more so than the night before. She wishes Artie would at least put a limit on the number of reporters that are permitted to swarm her as soon as she steps off stage. She doesn't have enough clout yet to demand that they all wait quietly outside her dressing room until she's ready to address them. Her only option at this point in her career, unfortunately, is to play the game by their rules, at least until she's paid her dues.

She cringes as another flashbulb nearly blinds her before quickly plastering on one of her well-practiced media smiles.

"Miss Berry, how does it feel to be the toast of Broadway?" a reporter she recognizes from The New York Post asks.

"It feels remarkable, thank you," she tells him. "It's truly a dream come true." And while it certainly is at that, she can't help but feel like she's got one foot in a completely different world; whichever world Finn happens to be in at this moment, that is. Her eyes scan the crowded hallway in search of his towering frame, while at the same time doing her best to remain polished and poised as she engages with the barrage of media photographers. She thinks irritably to herself that she'd like to catch at least one last glimpse of the man she adores before another camera flash blinds her in both eyes.

He's nowhere to be found, however, and it briefly occurs to her that maybe he hadn't actually been there in the audience tonight after all. He'd promised her he would be, but of course she hadn't actually been able to _see_ him from her vantage point on stage. She'd received her usual "break a leg" text from him shortly before showtime…so where was he? The thought remains unsettling to her as the reporters continue to swarm around her like flies.

"Hey Miss Berry, can we get one with you and Romeo?"

"With who?" she asks confusedly before realizing the photographer is referring to Jesse. Within seconds her male co-star appears by her side, almost as if he'd been waiting on the sidelines for his turn in the spotlight.

"Take as many photos as you need," Jesse tells them, his voice saturated in phoniness. "I was just allowing Rachel her chance to soak in the attention. She was truly spectacular tonight, as always."

Her eyes shift discreetly over to where he stands by her side, trying not to let the contempt in them be made known to any of the reporters whose interest has piqued noticeably now with her male co-star suddenly in the picture. It was inevitable that she would have to pose alongside Jesse, and the grin on Artie's face as he looks on in approval reminds her that it's in the show's best interest for her to suck it up and play nice as long as those media lenses are on her.

So she stands stiffly beside Jesse while the cameras flash, squirming imperceptibly in an attempt to shake off the hand he places on her lower back.

"So, are the two of you an item?" one thirsty reporter asks.

"No, it's strictly an on-stage romance," she's quick to answer. "But I'll take your question as a compliment to my performance."

"Sources say the two of you were seen canoodling this morning at a Starbucks on West 10th," the same reporter states in an interrogative tone.

She feels herself shift uncomfortably at the notion that her daily errands are now apparently being documented without her even knowing. She forces a casual chuckle in an attempt to deny what the reporter is implying. "Yes that is true, although I wouldn't call it _canoodling_ ," she clarifies. "As actors it's important that we maintain a strong rapport, and weekly coffee meetings are just one way we go about that. Isn't that right, Jesse?"

She takes the risk of putting the ball in his court, regretting it instantly as she holds her breath in nervous anticipation of what his response will be. To her surprise and relief, he merely nods in affirmation, saying, "Yes, Rachel and I find it necessary to spend a little quality time with each other outside the theatre. It helps strengthen our chemistry on stage, as I'm sure you've all noticed."

"Has there been any friction between the two of you?"

Rachel allows Jesse to take this one as well, his response to the last question making her more confident in doing so. Her confidence wanes however when he takes a moment to compose his answer, almost as if he's building suspense. She can hear the smirk in his voice when he finally replies with, "Well that depends on what type of friction you mean."

Her stomach drops, her teeth gritting in anger at the implication of what he just said. The reporters, however, are now more intrigued than ever, their cameras flashing, their questions more probing and persistent. There's nothing she can say at this point to undo or deny it. The damage is done, her only option being to "play along," so to speak, which she does by forcing a hearty laugh, followed by a good-humored eye roll and a shake of her head as if to say, "see how _hilarious_ he is?"

By the time the charade is over her fists are clenched tightly at her sides as she literally _strains_ to keep from punching Jesse square in the face. She's heated enough to know that it's in her best interest to get as far as away from him as humanly possible in order to avoid doing something she'll later regret. As soon as the reporters begin to disperse, she turns on her heels and storms off toward her dressing room, refusing to look Jesse in the eye.

The door slams behind her and she's certain she's going to see actual fire shooting out of her ears when her eyes meet her own reflection in the mirror. Something else captures her attention instead, however. A stunning bouquet of red roses sits atop her small vanity, the dim bulbs of light surrounding it making it look as though it were placed there by the theatre gods. She approaches it, her heart thumping in anticipation as she picks up the small card folded next to the elaborate bouquet.

 **Rachel, you were amazing tonight. I'm sure the fans are going crazy over you, but when they're done I want to give you the star treatment you deserve. Go out the back door and look for a white limo. The driver knows where to take you. I'll be waiting, always...Finn.**

A warmth surges throughout her entire being as she thinks of Finn waiting for her, tucked away inside some cozy, mysterious location in the city. All traces of frustration and anger have since escaped her, her troubles forgotten as everything on the other side of the door carries on without her. The only thing on her mind now is getting to Finn.

* * *

She has to admit she's not overwhelmingly impressed when the driver slows to a stop in front of what appears to be a rather dodgy-looking building in an even dodgier end the city. Considering the lavishness of the limousine that brought her here, she'd been anticipating something slightly more elaborate. She's reluctant to even set one foot out the door of the car, shooting the driver a look of uncertainty when he confirms that this is, in fact, the right address.

She's reassured, however, when her phone buzzes in her hand and a text from Finn reads, _Don't worry, you're in the right place_. She smiles when it appears he's looking down on her, reading her thoughts from some unseen location overhead. After thanking the driver she exits the limo, her heels clicking on the pavement as she approaches the unsightly building, entering it through the unlocked double doors. Once inside, she sees no sign of Finn, but the soft candles that line the stairs leading up to the first floor seem to be inviting her in that direction. She follows a candle-lit path that guides her all the way to the foot of a sliding wooden door that's easily as tall as the ceiling. She knocks a bit hesitantly, hoping it's Finn who answers and not the kind of unsavory person she imagines would actually live in a place like this.

Much to her relief it's in fact Finn who pulls the door aside, the sly grin on his face suggesting he'd anticipated the confusion running through her head when the limo driver had brought her to this strangely ominous looking place. He's wearing a red football jersey with the number five on it. The jersey appears well-worn and gives him a boyish quality that makes him look several years younger, almost as if he just stepped out of his own high school yearbook.

"Welcome," he greets her, reaching out a hand inviting her to step inside.

"Thank you," she says, taking his hand, her eyebrows still raised in question as she enters the wide open space. The sight before her resembles something of a warehouse converted into an apartment. Despite the ruggedness of it all, it's possibly the coziest, most romantic little haven she's ever stumbled upon. The soft, flickering light brought on by the candles and Christmas lights somehow make the vastness of the space appear small, homey, and inviting.

"Finn, what's...where are we?" she asks, her eyes still roaming over every inch of the captivating place.

"I used to live here with my step-brother back when I first moved to New York," Finn explains.

She assumes he's referring to his gay step-brother Kurt, which would explain the surprisingly quaint decor that doesn't jive at all with the masculine, disorganized apartment Finn rents across town.

"It took me weeks to convince Kurt to even set foot in the place," Finn chuckles. "He said the outside of the building looked more like a crack house than an apartment."

"I don't blame him," she mutters.

"He finally caved in when I agreed to let him decorate," Finn continues. "At first I thought it looked too girly, but pretty soon I learned to love it."

"So...how do you still have this place?" she asks confusedly. "Does Kurt still live here?"

He shakes his head, "No. The landlord lets me keep renting it for super cheap. I know the place is a dive and the location isn't exactly desirable, but I still like to come up here from time to time. It helps me sort of...I don't know, escape from everything else."

"What do you mean?" she asks softly.

"I don't know," he sighs wistfully. "I guess being here makes me think of a simpler time, back when Kurt and I were just a couple of young kids trying to build our careers in the big city. I'm sort of a nostalgic guy, I guess. I like remembering the past...the good parts, anyway."

"Speaking of the past," she starts, eyeing the jersey he's wearing. "Is this some kind of roleplay thing we're doing? Am I supposed to be a cheerleader or something?"

He shakes his head as he begins walking slowly toward her. "No," he tells her softly. "You're supposed to be exactly who you are."

They hold each other's gaze, Rachel blushing slightly as that familiar warmth she feels from being in his proximity soothes her from the inside out. "Well I like it," she tells him. "I think maybe you should wear it more often."

He chuckles. "I actually wore this when I auditioned for the school musical. Everybody thought it was weird seeing a jock get up on stage and sing showtunes, but it ended up being one of the greatest experiences of my life."

"It's an amazing feeling, isn't it?" she says, smiling warmly.

"It is," he nods. "I used to put this jersey on, thinking it might help me to somehow get that feeling back. It never worked though, and instead I always felt like I was losing myself."

"Finn," she breathes, her heart aching for him and the deep personal longing his words reveal.

"No Rachel, you don't understand," he continues before she can say anything else. "I started feeling that way all over again when I met _you_. Ever since then it's like I've been rediscovering that lost part of myself... _you_ did that for me, Rachel. And you I have no idea how grateful I am."

"Oh Finn," she says again, tears brimming in her eyes as she closes the space between them, pulling him in for an embrace. He buries his nose in her hair, his strong arms holding her tightly against him. It's as if neither ever wants to let go, but finally they do, Rachel needing to look deeply into his eyes and tell him what's threatening to seep through every pore in her body if she goes another minute without speaking the words out loud. "Finn, there's something you should know…"

"What is it, Rach?" he asks softly, bringing one hand up to cup her cheek.

"You helped me, Finn," she begins, barely able to contain her emotions as she speaks. "You helped me so much and you don't even know it. You're the reason I'm able to get up on that stage and perform with Jesse. I _despise_ him, and I can hardly stand having to pledge my undying devotion to him in front of an audience every night...but then I started thinking of _you_ , and all the beautiful, sincere things I feel when we're together. Just picturing your sweet face fills me with love and I feel like I could look even my worst enemy in the eye and pretend to adore them."

She makes no attempt to backtrack or undo it as the word "love" hovers in the space between them. She thought saying it out loud would terrify her, the thought of him not sharing the same sentiments toward her making her want to safeguard the feelings inside her heart forever. But as she stands there in silence, poised on the edge of what to say next, she realizes the only thing she'd ever regret about knowing Finn Hudson would be _not_ telling him he's special and that he's loved, and that the truth of it remains regardless of how he feels in return.

Much to her glorious relief, the revelation in her words spreads a beaming smile across his beautiful face, his eyes practically shining right out of his head as he looks down at her. "Rachel, I love you so much," he tells her intensely.

A choked sob escapes her right before her lips crash against his. She tastes his happy tears mixed with her own and they're as sweet as the new and mutually-shared feelings that are now finally out in the open for both of them to revel in and experience together. "I love you, Finn," she breathes when they finally break for air, needing to say the words again and again, each time making her heart swell to a size that's way far out of proportion with every other part of her tiny little frame.

"I love you too," he says, smiling through his tears. "And you may not believe this, but I knew it from the moment I first saw you."

She lets out a hearty chuckle, her thoughts taking her back to a time when neither would've appeared to be the other's match made in heaven. "As a matter of fact I do believe you, Finn Hudson. And do you know why?"

"Why?" he asks curiously.

"Because I knew that day you came into my yoga class and started humming like an idiot that I was in _big_ trouble."

He scoffs in disbelief, unable to fathom her feeling anything other than sheer annoyance toward the impish way he'd behaved himself that day. "I highly doubt that made you fall in love with me, Rach. I'm pretty sure I annoyed the crap out of you."

"You did," she agrees. "But I think if it's possible to know something and _not_ know it at the same time, that's what I was feeling towards you back then."

"Well I'm glad we finally got our feelings all straightened out," he says, cupping her face in his hands lovingly, smiling as his eyes adore every inch of her.

She nods in agreement, her breath catching in her throat as her weighty emotions rise toward the surface yet again. "I meant what I said, Finn," she says, her voice thick with sincerity. "You changed me. With you in my heart I feel like I can do anything, be anything I want to be."

"Rachel," he breathes, his thumbs stroking away the stray tears now streaking slowly down her face. "You changed _me_. That night when I saw your show for the first time was like nothing I've ever felt before. It was like...I don't know, like remembering my own name or something. I know that sounds strange, but since then all I've wanted to do is make you happy."

She leans up to plant a soft kiss on his lips, then pulls back to look directly into his eyes. "Finn I wish more than anything that you could be up on that stage with me. But now I realize that in a way you already are. You're _everywhere_ and you're everything. No matter where I go I take you with me, always."

He slowly reaches for her hand, still looking deeply into her eyes, and places it over his heart. "Always," he repeats softly.

* * *

 **TBC...**


	8. Technically Yes and Technically No

**Well hey! Apologies for the RIDICULOUS delay in updates. I just...yeah. I don't really have an excuse tbh.**

 **Many thanks to those of you still following this story. Hope you enjoy :)**

 **Disclaimer: Do not own.**

* * *

The only thing worse than the sound of your alarm going off at seven-thirty in the morning is the sound of your phone ringing at an even _more_ ungodly hour. It pierces through the deep and blissful sleep she'd been lulling in for the past several hours, Idina Menzel's "Defying Gravity" suddenly grating on her nerves like never before. She'll definitely be changing her ringtone as soon as possible.

"Hello?" she groans into her phone, her voice thick with sleep.

"Rach, it's me," Blaine's voice speaks through the receiver.

"Blaine?" she whispers, trying not to wake Finn, who's still sleeping soundly beside her. "Why are you calling so early? Is something wrong?"

"Well, technically yes and technically no," he replies ambiguously. "It all depends on how you look at it."

"Oh for the love of...alright, hang on one second," she groans again as she manages to creep quietly out from under the covers, vacating the bed without Finn so much as batting an eye. She tiptoes over to the kitchen area, feeling a chill on her bare legs sticking out from underneath one of Finn's oversized t-shirts. "Okay, what's going on?" she asks, resuming her conversation with Blaine in a low voice.

"Have you looked at Jacob Israel's blog yet?"

"Have I looked at it _yet?_ " she asks irritably. "Blaine, it's seven in the morning and you woke me up with this call, so _no_ , I haven't looked at anything."

"Well, I think you might want to...just sayin'."

She blows out a sigh, certain that whatever Blaine's hinting around at is not nearly dire enough to justify her leaving the warm bed she'd been so blissfully curled up in next to Finn. Now that she's up, though, she might as well see what all the fuss is about. She tells Blaine to hold on again before taking the phone away from her ear so she can pull up her internet app. Jacob's blog pops right up, it being fresh in her search history (okay fine, so maybe she does read it from time to time).

The groan she emits when she sees what's on the page is practically loud enough to rattle the foundation of the building. She bites her lip as she curses under her breath, her eyes shooting over toward Finn, who's thankfully still sleeping like a rock. He'd undoubtedly be wide awake, however, if he knew his face was currently front and center at the top of a trashy entertainment blog. The problem is, his face isn't the _only_ one, and as her gaze shifts warily back to her phone she can't help but cringe at the series of images glaring up at her. They're all photos taken over the past couple of days - one of her and Finn backstage after the show, one of her having coffee with Jesse, and, lastly, one of her and Blaine kissing each other on the street yesterday. The common denominator in all three photos is, of course, _her_ , the story accompanied by a salacious headline that reads, " _Three Guys In One Day For Broadway's New Star Rachel Berry!_ "

"Rach? You still there?" she hears Blaine questioning her.

"Uh...y-yeah," she answers dazedly after returning the phone to her ear.

"Rach, I'm so sorry about this. I shouldn't have asked you to kiss me out in public like that. I had no idea this would happen. It's just, well…"

"What?" she asks, confused by his tone.

"Well the silver lining is that this might help get me a callback for _Grease_. I mean the fact that I was spotted making out with a girl should definitely convince the casting directors that I'm capable of playing a straight guy."

"Oh well that's just great, Blaine, so glad I could be of some assistance," she replies bitterly, unable to feel enthusiasm for her friend's potential good fortune given the set of circumstances that brought it on.

"Look, I really am sorry," Blaine says, realizing she's in no mood for silver linings at the present moment. "By the way, who's the tall guy? Are you dating him too?"

"I'm dating him and _only_ him," she snaps, every word out of Blaine's mouth only heightening her state of aggravation. It's not Blaine she's angry at, she knows it, but _still_ , he's not helping.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," Blaine apologizes again, clearly eager to exit the conversation. "Look, why don't we talk more about this later, maybe over coffee or something. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay," she agrees half-heartedly, wondering if she'll ever actually be able to go out in public with another man again without it making headlines. She hangs up with Blaine, staring down at her phone with a furrowed brow as images of her "canoodling" with what Jacob Israel is claiming are all _three_ of her boyfriends continues taunting her on the screen. She nearly jumps out of her skin when she feels a pair of hands place themselves on her shoulders from behind.

"Sorry, did I scare you?" Finn chuckles against her ear.

She laughs in nervous embarrassment before quickly laying her phone facedown on the counter. She hadn't even realized he was awake, her head swimming in too many bothersome thoughts for her to hear him moving around behind her. "I thought you were still sleeping," she says with a smile, turning her head to meet his lips for a soft kiss.

"I was," he tells her, puckering his lips for another peck, which she gives him. "But the bed got cold when you left. Is everything okay?"

"Errm, well…" she stammers hesitantly. She _so_ doesn't feel like discussing this right now, and really, what are the chances of him ever checking Jacob Israel's stupid blog anyway? But still, she's smart enough to know that anything that's been posted on the internet has the potential of reaching him _somehow_. It's probably better that she just go ahead and explain the situation herself to prevent it backfiring on her at a later time. "Have I ever told you about my friend Blaine?" she begins rather pathetically.

"Uh, I don't think so," he answers. "Why?"

"Well the main thing you need to know about him is that he's _gay_. Like, capital 'G' gay, no doubt about it. In fact I was thinking of fixing him up with Kurt if he's available."

"Um okay...I mean yeah, I guess you could try that," he agrees, his brow furrowing in confusion as he attempts to follow her train of thought. She doubts his step-brother's love life was the first thing on his mind when he woke up this morning. "Rach, are you sure everything's okay?"

She lets out an exasperated sigh, realizing she needs to just cut right to the point. Still groaning under her breath, she reluctantly reaches for her phone, pulling up the blog post on the screen before holding it out for him to read.

He slowly takes the phone from her hand, now more confused than ever. His eyes rake over the images on the screen while she remains poised to explain everything. She hopes her brief introduction to "Gay Blaine" (emphasis on the _gay_ ) will prevent him from jumping to the wrong conclusions at the sight of her kissing a man he doesn't recognize.

"I am _so_ sorry about this Finn, but I promise you it's not what it looks like," she assures him, studying his face nervously as she awaits his reaction. His expression remains composed, clearly not pleased with what he's seeing, but not seething in anger over it either.

"So, the guy in the leather jacket is…"

"That's Blaine," she confirms. "He's my oldest friend from NYADA. I ran into him yesterday and he was on his way to an audition for _Grease_ and he told me he had to kiss a girl and that he was really nervous - on account of his being _gay_ and not all that into kissing girls - and so he asked me if I would kiss him just to help reassure him that he actually _is_ good at kissing girls, and _obviously_ it meant nothing because he's gay and I'm, you know, _a girl_ , and I was just helping out a friend, but it was stupid and I shouldn't have done it and I'm so, _so_ sorry."

About halfway through her word vomit she realizes it isn't necessary to continue pleading her case, that he's mostly just annoyed with the article itself and not _actually_ suspecting her of cheating on him with a guy who's dressed like Danny Zuko. "So, who's the scumbag that posted this?" he asks, looking up at her. "Was it Jew Fro?"

"It was," she nods. "His blog is nothing but trash and lies, and you can assume anything he posts about me in the future is just that."

He nods slowly, his eyes dropping back down to the screen. "You really should sue that guy, Rach," he muses, his jawline tensing when he reads over the scandalous headline once again.

"Unfortunately there's not a whole lot I can do about it," she sighs. "I'm somewhat of a celebrity now, at least in the Broadway world, which means that according to the legal system I voluntarily injected myself into the public eye, making me fair game for this kind of media exploitation. It sucks, but that's just the way it is."

She can see he's not entirely keen on accepting that these unfavorable circumstances are "just the way it is," the tension in his face conveying as much. She doesn't want him stressing about it though, and knows this is likely the first of many gossip stories of this nature. It's certainly not the kind of image she wants the media putting out there, but despite those career-related concerns, she mainly just doesn't want Finn getting hurt. She'll just have to more careful from now on and not do anything out in public that she wouldn't want plastered all over the internet.

"Well," he says, sighing resolutely. "I guess it's just something we're going to have to learn to live with."

She can't help but smile at his use of the word "we"; because despite what the blogs are saying, there's only one man she considers herself romantically tied to, and it's the tall, adorable, _amazing_ one standing right in front of her. "So...you're not mad?" she asks hopefully.

"Not at you," he tells her, his face softening. "Although I can't promise not to punch that Jew Fro's face in the next time I see him."

"I'm afraid that wouldn't do you any good," she says with a sigh. "He would just print an entirely one-sided article depicting himself as the victim and you as the heartless neanderthal with a volatile temper."

His shoulders sag a bit as he nods in understanding. "I guess you're right," he agrees. He sets her phone down on the counter, his eyes flashing with sincerity as he looks pointedly at her. "I just can't stand the thought of anyone hurting you, Rachel."

She smiles sweetly, his genuine concern for her making her heart swell inside her chest. Aside from her fathers, no man has ever cared for her in such a personal and profound way. "Don't worry about me, Finn" she tells him as she brings her hand up to cup his left cheek.

He smiles weakly before turning his face into her palm, kissing it softly. "I'll try," he utters. A comfortable silence passes between the two of them, Finn finally breaking it, saying, "You know, this isn't exactly what I imagined us doing this morning."

She raises her eyebrows in intrigue, Finn's empty bed hovering in her peripheral view. "Oh really? And what _exactly_ did you have in mind, Mr. Hudson?"

He shrugs his shoulders, his eyes winking playfully as he feigns a monotonous yawn. "Oh, I don't know…" he trails off, leaving her suspended in eager silence before he suddenly springs into action, picking her up and throwing her over his right shoulder.

Rachel shrieks with delight, her upside-down laughter echoing throughout the apartment as he carries her over to the empty bed. Her giddiness dissolves into quiet sighs as he lays her down, both of them forgetting the troublesome thing that woke them the first time and opting to start the morning all over again.

* * *

"What up, Finn Kardashian? How does it feel to be internet famous?"

Finn lets out a groan. His phone has been buzzing all day with Kurt's relentless text messages, all of them demanding that Finn indulge him in the details of his alleged "affair" with a Broadway starlet. He'll deal with his step-brother's badgering later, but other than that he hadn't expected anyone else from his social circle to find the incident all that captivating. He'd _certainly_ figured the chances of Puck ever reading a Broadway gossip blog were slim to none, and thus hadn't bothered to mention Jacob Israel's article. Evidently he'd thought wrong, his best friend's interrogating words as he'd barged through the door of Finn's office making him drop his head into his open palm. "How the fuck did you even find out about that?" he asks wearily.

"It's the internet, dude," Puck explains with a shrug. "That shit travels fast."

"So what, you're a Broadway fan now?"

"Fuck no," Puck scoffs. "I can't even remember the name of that fancy pants blog your ass made an appearance on this morning. You're my best bro, however, and so naturally I heard about it through the grapevine."

"And what grapevine would that be?" Finn questions, racking his brain to think of a single member of Puck's social circle that would know anything whatsoever about Broadway.

"Okay fine, so maybe I'm hooking up with a girl who's all into that shit," Puck admits. "She's one of those _Rockettes_ or whatever - you know, those chicks that can kick their legs up behind their ears?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," Finn says, not really interested in Puck's sex life at the moment. "Look, I'm not 'internet famous' or whatever you call it."

"But you're banging that chick from the gym, right?" Pucks asks. "That little brunette one with the tight little-"

" _Dude!_ " Finn cuts him off angrily, much to the confusion of Puck. He knows this would've been typical "bro talk" amongst the two of them in the past; but now, with Finn knowing Rachel the way he does, it almost _sickens_ him to hear his best friend speak of her so crudely.

He watches Puck gape at him in silence for several moments before turning to close the half-open door. "Alright, I'm gonna need you to map this out for me, Finngasm," Puck says, genuine interest reaching his voice as he parks himself in the chair opposite Finn's desk. "Explain yourself, bro. What's going on?"

"Nothing," Finn says weakly, knowing that won't do for an explanation. He sighs against his palm before adding, "And look, I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk about Rachel in that way."

"Dude, I knew it," Puck says.

"Knew what?" Finn asks, the amused smirk Puck's throwing back at him making him shift uncomfortably in his seat.

"I knew you liked her, bro. In fact that's sort of why I stepped aside."

" _Stepped aside_?" Finn repeats in annoyance, the implication of his winning over Rachel's heart being thanks to Puck withdrawing himself from the competition making him roll his eyes.

"I coulda had her," Puck shrugs. "But for what it's worth, I think she's more your type than mine. Those Jewish girls are crazy, bro. I can't handle 'em."

"But... _you're_ Jewish," Finn starts to argue before immediately deciding against it. "Ya know what, nevermind. "Just please, don't talk about Rachel like she's a...a piece of meat or something."

"You got it, bro," Puck agrees willingly. His intrigued smirk remains in tact as he reclines back in his chair. "So...are you like, in _loooove_ with her or something?"

Finn rolls his eyes for the upteenth time, Puck's amused chuckle not making him want to indulge his best friend in the more private details of his life with Rachel. "Well, if you're _that_ interested to know..." he begins hesitantly. "Yeah...yeah, actually I am."

"Well snap the fuck out of it," Puck says after a silent beat.

" _What?_ " Finn flinches in surprise.

"Your head's in the fuckin' clouds, dude. This chick's got you all strung out on love potion number nine or whatever. You've been a zombie around here for the past few weeks. Your attitude sucks and your productivity is shit."

"Oh _really?_ " Finn protests, Puck's words making him pulsate with annoyance. "I guess you forgot about that contract I secured for Evans. You know, the one that helped save both you and Jake's sorry asses?"

"Oh yeah, dude, I remember all that," Puck assures him. "I'm just waiting on the day when it all blows up in our fucking faces."

"The fuck are you talking about?"

"Oh come on, dude. Did you really think I'd buy that you just _magically_ secured that deal for Evans? I know you pulled some shady shit to make that happen."

Finn swallows thickly, trying to maintain an unfazed expression as he and Puck stare each other down across the table. "I didn't," he utters softly. He knows it's pointless to try and deny it, Puck pretty much having x-ray vision when it comes to seeing through his bullshit.

"Seriously?" Puck asks, his eyebrows raising in surprise.

"Seriously," Finn says evenly, shocked that Puck's actually buying it. "I mean come on, dude, do you really think I'd pull something stupid like that?"

Puck just shrugs, his eyes dropping to the floor as he shakes his head. "I don't know, man. Like I said, you've been a little out of sorts lately. I'm not quite sure what to think."

Finn lets out a deep breath, relaxing somewhat now with Puck's interrogative stare no longer on him. "Look I'll admit I've been a little...distracted lately. Maybe my heart's just not into it the way it used to be - I don't know. But it's nothing you need to worry about anymore, alright? I'm good, I promise."

He hates lying to his friend, the lingering suspicion in Puck's eyes not entirely convincing him that he's even getting away with anything at all. Truth be told, he's not even certain what the repercussions would actually _be_ if Puck were to catch on to his secret (and very illegal) bargain he'd made with Ken Tanaka. Sure, there was a time when he would've believed without question that his best friend would have his back...but now? Well, it's a little bit hard to say.

"Didn't mean to accuse you, bro," Puck says finally after staring at Finn thoughtfully for several uncomfortable moments. He stands from his chair, leaning across the desk to place a firm hand on Finn's shoulder. He tilts his face downward so that he's looking him pointedly in the eye. "But hey...I'd watch your back if I were you. You're sort of famous by association now that you're dating this Broadway chick. You can't fuck around the way you used to - if you do, it's gonna be all over social media in two shakes. I'm just sayin'...watch out for that shit. Know what I mean?"

Finn has to swallow the lump in his throat before forcing a roll of his eyes, tacking on a light-hearted chuckle for good measure. Meanwhile his insides are stormy with troublesome thoughts. _Rachel._ If the truth about his illegal activity were to surface, landing him in court, or possibly even jail, she would undoubtedly be impacted negatively. He shudders as he envisions the media saga that would be sure to unfold if Broadway's newest star were dating a criminal. She'd be a tabloid target before her career even had a chance to take off. No matter what happens to him, he simply cannot allow her to be scandalized by this in any way. "I appreciate your concern, man," he assures Puck. "But I really don't think you need to worry."

"Worry 'bout what, bro?" Puck says absently, not even looking at Finn anymore as something on his phone commands his attention fully.

Finn figures some chick probably sent him nudes or something ( _perfect timing_ ) and decides to use Puck's distraction to his own advantage. "Oh nothing, dude. We can talk about it later."

"Cool, man," Puck mutters, rising from his chair and angling toward the door with his eyes still glued to his phone. "Look, I gotta get going. There's someone I gotta go…"

" _Do?_ " Finn asks, watching in amusement as the appeal of sex and women practically lures his friend out of the room as if by hypnosis.

"Yeah," Puck answers distractedly. "Hey I'll catch you on the flip side, bro, alright?"

"Alright," Finn says, thankful for whatever X-rated distraction has made Puck physically incapable of caring about anything else. As soon as he's alone in his office he grabs for his phone, his anxiety triggered by Puck's sobering words making him spring into action before another moment passes by. He waits impatiently after dialing a set of numbers, swallowing the golf ball sized lump in his throat before Ken Tanaka finally answers. "Hey Ken, it's Hudson," he speaks in a low voice.

"What do you want now?" the older man asks irritably.

"Nothing, I...look, I think that deal we made might've been a mistake."

"You're damn right it was a mistake. Believe me, that's not how I normally do business, but the offer you made me was a difficult one to refuse." He's silent for a moment before adding, "Also I might've been a little, um...a little bit under the influence...of some _medication_ when I let you talk me into the whole thing."

"You didn't need much convincing," Finn mutters in annoyance. He blows out a breath before continuing, "Look, I was thinking maybe we could just, ya know... _undo_ the whole thing. Like, pretend it never happened."

"And how _exactly_ do you suppose we do that, Hudson? The deal's already been cut."

"Yeah but it's not _official_ until all the paperwork is signed and Evans gets his spot on the roster and whatnot."

"None of that shit matters," Ken scoffs. "What matters is that Evans thinks he's got a five year contract secured with The Giants. His wife already sent me a goddamn fruit basket."

"Uh, I'm pretty sure you could just send that back to her, Ken."

"Oh, and who says I even want to?" Ken replies. "It's got mangos in it and everything…"

Finn groans, his patience wearing thin as he snaps, "Look, I don't care, I'm not letting a _fruit basket_ be the reason we go ahead with this deal. I mean, can you imagine what'll happen to _both_ of our careers if someone ever finds out?"

"And what do you think will happen if you snatch away Evans' contract after getting him all hyped up about it? It'd be like taking candy from a baby! Not to mention I know for a _fact_ that you and all your dick-headed friends would be out of a job."

" _Like I said_ ," Finn reiterates through clenched teeth, "I don't care about any of that. I just, I can't have this shady deal on my conscience...it's all gonna blow up in my face, I can feel it."

"Well you and your guilty conscience should've thought about before you made such a dirty proposition in the first place. Besides, I already spent most of the two-hundred grand you paid me."

"On _what_?" Finn asks in disbelief. He can hear Ken shifting uncomfortably on his end of the line.

"I got some, uh...some _medical expenses_ ," Ken answers unconvincingly. "Ya know, allergies and stuff."

Finn sighs in exasperation, pinching the bridge of his nose as he shakes his head. "Look, keep the money, I don't care. I just want to undo this whole thing."

"What's your angle here, Hudson?" Ken asks suspiciously after a silent beat.

"Wh-what do you mean?" Finn responds a bit tensely.

"You have a religious experience or something? I just can't figure out why an ambitious guy like you suddenly wants to pussyfoot his way out of a _six million dollar deal_ because he's afraid of what? Of possibly spending a few months in prison if he gets caught? I would think the risk factor in all of it would thrill you death."

Finn slumps back in his chair, unsure of how to respond to Ken's inquisition. He knows it's pointless to try and articulate what's _actually_ at the root of this plea bargain he's so desperately wanting to make. It's not about him, and hasn't been since he found someone whose happiness mattered infinitely more than his own ever would again...but that's certainly not something he's going to make Ken Tanaka understand right at this very moment, and he doubts the older man even cares all that much to begin with. "Sure. Call it a religious experience if you want to," he sighs. "I just...please Ken, can you help me out on this? I'm really putting my pride on the line here, as you can see."

A silence ensues, Finn literally on the edge of his seat while Ken takes his time mulling over his response. "Nah, can't do it," he finally answers decisively.

Finn drops his head into his hand. _That's it_. It's clear there's no talking Ken in or out of anything at this point in time. He blows out a sigh, his voice reflecting his own defeat as he says, "Thanks anyway, Ken. I appreciate it."

"Mmm hm," Ken mutters apathetically.

"And hey, let me know if you change your-"

 _Click_. Ken's end of the line goes dead before he can finish his thought. Frustrated, he powers off his phone as he sits in silence, his mind mulling over the failed conversation that just took place. Unlike last time, Ken hadn't appeared to be under the influence of any "medication," his lucid demeanor making it nearly impossible for Finn to talk him in or out of anything. Maybe he'll try again later when Ken's in a more _agreeable_ kind of mood, but honestly, he's not counting on much of anything changing at this point. All he can do is hope that the truth about his illegal bribery remains under the radar where it belongs.

His face is still tense with concern when his office phone rings, making him groan out loud. Not really in the mood to deal with anything work-related right now, he regretfully picks up the receiver, answering with an unenthusiastic, "Hello?"

"Finn!"

Rachel's exuberant voice is like music to his ears. He hadn't expected to hear her on the other end of the line, his work phone being almost exclusively reserved for business calls.

"Finn, are you there?" she asks confusedly.

"Oh, y-yeah," he responds, chuckling in embarrassment. "Of course I'm here, baby, what's up?"

" _Finn_. Finn, oh my God, I-I was trying to call you on your cell phone but you weren't answering," she tells him breathlessly, her voice practically shaking with excitement.

"Well what is it, Rach?" he asks, now more than intrigued than ever as he sits perched on the edge of his seat. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes, yes, it's fine - it's _great_ , actually," she assures him. "Finn, I-I've been nominated...for a Tony."

"You what? _Really?_ " he gasps, instincts making him leap right out of his chair. " _Oh my God_ , Rach, are you serious?"

"Uh huh," she says, breathing heavily. "Finn, it's incredible. I just...can you believe it?"

"Of _course_ I can believe it, baby!" he tells her adamantly. "You deserve it more than anyone has ever deserved anything, ever. I'm so proud of you, Rach, you have no idea."

Her joyful laugh practically sings through the phone, making his heart do a little dance within his chest. He's _so_ happy for her and there just aren't enough words, aren't enough muscles in his cheeks to support the smile that could seriously stretch for miles across his face.

"The show was nominated too, and so was Artie," she informs him, pausing before adding, "Jesse, um...wasn't."

"Hm," he mutters, already picturing Jesse's disgruntlement over not being acknowledged. Finn couldn't care less, however, Rachel's triumph being of infinitely more importance to him than anything involving that obnoxious little prick.

"Anyway," Rachel continues, "The cast is going out to celebrate since it's our night off. I hope you don't mind…"

"Of course not, Rach. Go out and have fun. I've gotta catch up on some things here at work anyway."

"Well, if you want to come join us later we'll be at _Valerio's_ on Tenth Avenue."

"I'll tell you what," he grins, a much better idea on his mind. "Why don't you come join me at my place when you're done. Then we can, you know... _celebrate_ , just the two of us."

"Hmmm that's a very tempting offer, Mr. Hudson" she hums, her tone ripe with intrigue. She then lowers her voice, whispering, "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Great. I can't wait. I'm so happy for you, Rachel, and so, _so_ proud." His heart swells as he speaks the most genuine words he's expressed to anyone since he walked in the door; not more genuine, however, than the next three, which are, "I love you."

"I love you too, Finn," she says, the blissful quality in her tone making her almost breathless. "I'll see you soon."

They say their goodbyes, Finn's hand lingering affectionately on the phone long after he's hung up, almost as if it were a piece of her. If only he could just glue the thing to his ear and have Rachel's sweet voice talking him through all his troublesome hours at the office. He knows it's silly, _pathetic_ even, and that the man in him should probably be able to handle his own shit without any help at all from his girlfriend. Oh well, he figures it's a little too late to try and be "that guy," and who knows if he was ever even that guy to begin with?

He attempts to busy himself for the next hour, checking his email, listening to voicemails he should've answered weeks ago, checking his email yet again...it isn't long before he realizes he's doing a whole lot of nothing, and isn't likely to be inspired towards any actual productivity throughout the remainder of his workday. Sure, there are things he should be doing, and that he _could_ do quite easily if he were so inclined, but to be honest, he's never been less motivated by the drab, suffocating confines of his office than he is at that moment.

With his mind made up, he shuts down his computer and stands from his chair. It's still early, way too early for him to be leaving, but figures if Puck can sneak out on account of a booty call, he certainly doesn't need an excuse to cut his own workday short as well. Somehow he makes it down the hall, down the elevator, and out of the building without making small talk, or even eye contact with a single person. It isn't that it's any big deal, his co-workers leave all the time on account of lunch breaks, meetings, and whatnot; still, he's not sure when he became the guy who shows up to work late and leaves early after only a couple hours of unproductivity.

He'll sort all of that out later, he decides, not in the mood for any self-reflection at this point in time. Right now the only thing he's able to fixate on is getting things in order for when Rachel arrives at his apartment later tonight. He wants to really go all out for her, even more so than the previous night (which had probably been a little bit more about him, if he's being honest).

Tonight, as well as every night after if he has a say in the matter, he wants to make it all about her. He wants, _needs_ her to know how elated he is for her, and how he couldn't possibly feel any more proud if it were his own success they were celebrating.

* * *

His mood has brightened significantly since he left the office and there's a spring in his step as he heads toward the nearest flower shop. It's only the first of many stops he intends to make before returning to his apartment (which he has every intention of cleaning thoroughly until it resembles something unlike the disorganized man cave that it currently is). He even ponders returning one of Kurt's incessant phone calls, thinking his typically unsolicited advice on all things related to flowers, food, wine, and apartment decor might actually be of some use in this case. He quickly decides against it, however, not really in the mood for what's sure to be a lengthy interrogation from his step-brother. Of course eventually he intends on telling his family about Rachel, and looks forward to doing so, however, for now he likes the idea of their love being a secret shared between just the two of them.

...And also Puck, of course. Finn already regrets indulging his best friend in the seriousness of his and Rachel's relationship. Puck had always been his number one guy when it came to the sort of locker room talk that often bonded them in the past. However, lately he's found himself withholding more and more, realizing that the depth of what he feels for Rachel is simply too far out of his womanizing friend's realm of understanding.

Almost as if on cue, Finn feels his phone buzz inside his pocket. After sliding it out, he looks down and sees it's none other than Puck calling him. "Hey man, what's up?" he answers.

"Dude, what the fuck?" Puck's voice berates him. "You leave already?"

"Um, yeah," Finn answers somewhat confusedly. "I had some errands to run so I cut out early. Why, is something wrong?"

"Nah, nothing's _wrong_ ," Puck confirms. "In fact, I was actually hoping to apologize to your punk ass."

"Apologize? For what?"

"For all that shit I accused you of earlier this morning. That was totally out of line, bro, I hope you can forgive me."

Finn flinches in surprise, not at all expecting Puck to offer any apologies for his interrogations (which Finn silently knows had been spot on). "Oh...uh, yeah, no worries, man. It's forgotten," he responds casually.

"Good, glad we got that straightened out," Puck says. "Now hurry up and get your ass back here. I got a little somethin' for ya."

"Oh yeah, what's that?" Finn asks, his brow furrowing.

"It's a surprise," Puck replies in a mischievous tone. "But don't worry, you're gonna love it. I got it all laid out on top of your desk for you."

Finn wants to roll his eyes as pictures the giant keg of beer Puck has probably hauled in from somewhere; it certainly wouldn't be much of a "surprise," and is definitely not enough to tempt him into coming all the way back to the office. "Look as much as I appreciate it, bro, it's really not necessary to thank me anymore than you already have. Besides, I just figured you had already left for the day after that chick on your phone had you up and out of your seat like your pants were on fire."

"We did it in the conference room," Puck informs him as though it should've been obvious. "Besides, _my_ lady friends don't have me pussy-whipped, unlike one guy I know."

"What do you mean?" Finn flinches.

"Oh come on, dude, I know that girl's got you running errands for her like some chump. What, are you picking up her dry cleaning? Getting her a pumpkin spice latte with extra foam?"

"Fuck off, man, you don't even know the half of it," Finn defends, recalling his own inner dialogue from moments ago, about Puck not really 'getting it' when it comes to him and Rachel.

"Well there's one thing I _do_ know for damn sure, and it's that you should bring your pussy-whipped, grocery-getting ass back here before it's too late."

Before it's too _late?_ Surely the beer keg Puck dragged in from God knows where can't be on the verge of expiring in the next several minutes. It must be _really_ cheap beer, the thought of it literally putting a bad taste in Finn's mouth as he imagines taking a drink of the crap stuff. "I can't do it, bro, I'm sorry. Why don't you just, ya know, keep whatever it is and enjoy it for yourself."

He hears Puck chuckling on the other end of the line. "Oh trust me, I have every intention of doing _that_ ," he says lewdly. "It's just a shame you're punking out on me, dude. I think this could've really helped you to, I don't know, feel like your old self again."

Finn brow furrows, now slightly curious as to what Puck actually has up his sleeve, but also knowing there's not one part of his "old self" - at least the parts that Puck would know - that he's interested in reconnecting with at present. He decides not to press the issue any further, saying, "Look, I gotta go, man. I'll catch up with you soon, alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," Puck grumbles before hanging up on his end.

Finn hangs up as well, sighing in annoyance when he thinks of all the shit Puck's going to give him tomorrow. The thought quickly diminishes as he approaches the flower shop he'd been headed toward all along...if he's being honest, he's unable to fathom the kinds of things he used to care about before he cared about Rachel Berry.

* * *

She's soaring, _literally_ soaring, her feet barely touching the ground as they carry her along the crowded avenue. Her enthusiasm might be contagious if it were any other city but New York, the fast-walking citizens of Manhattan wanting nothing whatsoever to do with her chipper mood. If she were just a few streets over, closer to the theatre district, she's certain she'd be seeing cameras flashing in her periphery, the news of her Tony Award nomination securing her status as Broadway's newest and brightest star. As much as Jacob Israel's article had antagonized her that morning, she's certain that the news of her and the show's accolades will overshadow any gossip regarding her personal life, effectively nipping it in the bud before it becomes exaggerated beyond repair. She even had a line of agents and PR reps waiting outside her dressing room door, all of them promising to micromanage her rising career to ensure the best possible outcome.

Still, as elated as she's been since hearing the news, she can't help but feel a longing for a certain someone to be sharing in the excitement along with her. Her brief phone conversation with Finn had meant infinitely more than any of the champagne toasts or congratulatory sentiments exchanged among her cast mates. She can still feel Jesse's contemptuous eyes on her as she'd talked ecstatically with Artie about the nominations they'd both received, Jesse clearly embittered by his own lack of acknowledgement. She's certain that the show's success will only intensify the whirlwind of reporters speculating as to whether or not the on-stage romance between Rachel Berry and Jesse St. James is actually an off-stage one as well, speculations that she fully intends on shooting down vehemently every time.

All of this she attempts to rid her thoughts of as she approaches Finn's office building, the only towering skyscraper in the city with the power to make her heart swell as she thinks of him tucked away inside his cozy little office several stories above her head. He doesn't know she's coming, the thought of surprising him as he trudges through the monotony of his workday making her practically giddy as she enters through the double doors. She knew she was going to see him tonight, after the cast party at _Valerio's_ , but something about him being the last person she celebrated with had seemed rather redundant; considering the depth of the connection they share, he really ought to be the first.

She rides alone inside the elevator, its rapid ascension to the tenth floor perhaps symbolic of the rate at which her career has accelerated over the past several weeks. Her introspection ends as soon as the elevator dings, the doors parting to reveal the lobby entrance to Sylvester & Shuester. She smiles politely at the receptionist, whom she's met several times before, and makes her way down the narrow hallway leading to Finn's office. The place is mostly cleared out, it being toward the end of the workday, but she knows Finn's still there, catching up on work, like he'd told her he would be. His door is closed, the way it usually is when he's busy with something; she knows he won't mind a little surprise interruption from her, recalling the way his eyes always brighten up, the tension vacating his handsome features whenever she pops in on him like this.

She decides to forego knocking, wanting her surprise to be that much more dramatic. However, as she swings the door open, a bright smile stretched across her face, the sight that greets her is one that makes her gasp out loud in simultaneous horror and disgust.

Finn is nowhere to be found inside the tiny office. Instead, a scantily-clad, _extremely_ busty blonde sits seductively on top of his desk. Rachel hasn't met any of Finn's female co-workers, or even his mother for that matter, but it doesn't take a genius to figure that this woman is most definitely _neither_ of those things. She also gathers by the blonde's reaction that she hadn't exactly expected a short brunette woman to come breezing through the door just now.

"Did Finn hire you too?" the blonde asks in a high-pitched, nasally voice as she studies Rachel in what is obviously sincere confusion.

"He...I…" Rachel stammers, overcome by the volatile emotions that have now possessed her to the point of being speechless. As sickened as she is by the sight before her, the genuine lack of pretense in the blonde's tone makes it evident she's just here to do her job.

"You want me to move over?" the blonde asks innocently, gesturing toward the empty space beside her on the desk.

Rachel is again rendered speechless, unable to fathom just how it is she's found herself in this insane situation. She thinks she probably ought to ask this woman if it's the first time Finn has "hired" her, and what _exactly_ had she planned on doing with him when he got here...but then she figures none of that really matters, and nor is it something she even wants to know. She's just about to locate her voice so that she can politely tell the half-naked blonde that it isn't necessary for her to "move over," but before she gets the chance she hears a third person enter the room behind her, their heels clicking against the floor in confident, feminine strides.

A full-figured Latina woman saunters in as though she owned every inch of real estate in the building. Rachel vaguely recalls seeing her once at the gym, her mind jogging back to the memory of her whispering seductively in Finn's ear, something about being his "Tuesday night booty call"... _Was today Tuesday?_ As if that even mattered.

She's stirred from her thoughts when she notices the Latina sizing her up from head to toe, her arms folded across her impressive chest. Her contemptuous glare slowly reconfigures itself into something resembling intrigue, her lips pursing to form a suggestive grin. "Well well...if I had known this was what Finn had in mind I'd have asked my girl Britt to tag along. I normally prefer blondes, but you're kind of sneaky hot for a midget. I could tell Finn thought so too."

"E-Excuse me?" Rachel stutters redundantly, wondering why her feet don't just carry her out the door and instead feel like they're rooted in cement.

"I remember you from the gym," the Latina admits with a wink. "It was obvious Finn had his eye on that tight little bod you had packed away inside those shorts...so, what kind of girly stuff are you into? Scissoring? That should be a challenge considering you're about a foot shorter than me, but there's a world of other things Finn can watch us do."

"I'm not allowed to use scissors," the ditzy blonde informs them.

The Latina just rolls her eyes at the comment before turning her attention back to Rachel. If Rachel didn't know any better she'd guess that the intimidating Latina was about two seconds away from kissing her full on the lips. Far past being embarrassed she now finds her insides storming with rage, realizing she's literally standing in a veritable brothel full of women waiting for Finn to show up. Well, she's certainly not going to be here when he finally does; even though part of her wants to catch him in the midst of this appalling act, she simply can't bring herself to be in the same building as him for a moment longer. Even sharing the same city as him sickens her beyond belief, but for now, getting as far away from Finn Hudson as she's physically able will have to suffice.

"I-I'm sorry, I…" she stutters dazedly, wondering what it is she's actually apologizing for as two of her boyfriend's scantily-clad mistresses stare at her in question. Surely she doesn't owe them the courtesy of a proper explanation either, and so, without another word she bolts from the room as though it were on fire, the narrow hallway that had felt so inviting to her only moments before now feeling like its walls are closing in on her.

The elevator descends to the bottom floor, plummeting like her insides, falling like her spirits. She's practically blinded by her tears when her feet finally hit the pavement outside. She cries all the way home.

* * *

Finn stares absently at the TV screen, the basketball game he's been watching for the past couple of hours failing to captivate his attention. His eyes drift down to the phone in his hand, checking it redundantly even though it hasn't rung all evening. It's well past eleven o'clock and he still hasn't heard from Rachel. Of course he understands it's a big night for her and that naturally she'd want to share in the excitement with her fellow cast members. Still, he couldn't help but grow increasingly perplexed as text after text to her went unanswered, the screen of his phone staring blankly up at him as the hours wore on. He'd briefly contemplated taking a cab across town to the restaurant she said she'd be at, but then decided that might appear a bit too forward. He doesn't want to intrude on her celebratory moment...especially if she's _so_ enraptured that she can't even be bothered to return a single one of his texts.

He blows out a sigh, irritation clouding his thoughts, as well as a tinge of unwelcome jealousy when he pictures her laughing and toasting champagne with that Jesse St. Jackweed. He'd sort of imagined she'd be doing the same thing with _him_ right about now, however, the champagne he'd poured into two glasses hours ago had long since lost its fizzle, flattening to the consistency of apple juice by the time he'd finally dumped it down the sink. He's given up on most of the romantic ideals he'd envisioned for this evening...at this point he'd pretty much settle for her showing up at all, his jaw tensing as he sits alone in his immaculately cleaned apartment feeling a bit like some high school kid who got stood up on prom night.

The sound of his ringtone stirs him from his thoughts, every bone in his body lunging in eagerness toward the phone in his hand, only to groan in exasperation when he sees it's only Puck calling him. "Hello?" he practically barks into the phone.

"Uh, hey man, what's up?" Puck asks.

Finn sighs, not in the mood for small talk. "Nothing's up, dude. Why the fuck are you calling so late?"

"Oh sorry, is it past your bedtime?" Puck chuckles. "Look, I know why you're pissed, and I'm sure you probably think I'm to blame for it, but believe me when I say that is _not_ what I thought was going to happen."

Finn shakes his head, his brow creasing in bewilderment as he struggles to follow what Puck is getting at. "What the hell are you talking about?" Finn asks. "What happened? Why would I be pissed at you?"

"Uh, well...it's just…" Puck stammers awkwardly on his end of the line. "I mean I just sort of figured your girl had dumped you by now."

"Wait, _what?_ " Finn demands.

"Although if she didn't, she's obviously a lot cooler than I thought," Puck muses casually, causing Finn's blood to boil as his friend alludes to a situation involving Rachel...a situation he's obviously _completely_ in the dark about.

"Dude, if you don't tell me what the fuck is going on _right now_ , I swear to god-"

"Alright, alright," Puck interrupts, clearly not expecting to have to spell this whole thing out for him. After a moment of hesitation, he continues, "Look, Santana told me how she-"

" _Santana?_ " Finn questions. The name hasn't crossed his mind in weeks, his former friend and occasional hook-up barely even a flicker in his subconscious since he met Rachel. Speaking of whom, he can't even fathom how or why those two women would even come into contact with one another (or why it would be of much consequence if they did). Unless... _oh God_. "Puck," he begins slowly after swallowing the lump in his throat. "I need you to tell me _exactly_ what's going on... _please_."

Puck blows out a sigh before explaining, "Look, you know how I told you I had a surprise for you waiting back at the office? An apology for having accused you of pulling all that shady shit with Tanaka? Well, that 'surprise' might've been a little... _naked_."

"Wait, so you...you got me a _hooker?_ " Finn asks in disbelief.

"She was a stripper, dude," Puck corrects, as if that distinction made all the difference in the world. "Man, you should've seen her. Jugs the size of my head."

Finn shakes his head, rubbing his eyes in exasperation. "Okay, you're a fucking asshat, but what does any of this have to do with _Rachel?_ "

Puck clears his throat, stalling for time before reluctantly explaining, "Well, the thing is, she uh...she came by your office. I had _no fucking idea_ she was going to-"

"She _what?_ " Finn explodes, sheer horror storming his insides when he thinks of Rachel knocking on his office door, only to find some half-naked woman spread out on his desk.

"Dude, I _told you_ to come back to the office after you left this afternoon," Puck defends weakly.

"As if it would've been any better if I had _been there?_ " Finn shouts, unable to comprehend Puck's thought process as his own head spins violently, grappling for how he's going to undo this unfathomable scenario that could quite possibly be undo-able. He's on his feet, knocking over furniture and as he moves through the room like a tornado, heart hammering wildly in his chest.

By now Finn's frantic movements have alerted Puck to the severity of what he's done. Clearly he hadn't anticipated such a volatile reaction from his friend, the realization making his voice drop to a more sobering tone as he says, "Look man, I'm sorry...I didn't know it was a big deal."

"It's a big deal," Finn affirms, barely conscious of what he's saying as he flies out the door, deciding to forego the elevator and take the stairs, practically toppling down them as his feet move at a lightening speed. A thought registers somewhere in his mind that makes him stop cold in his tracks. "Wait a minute...why did you mention Santana?"

"Uhhh...well…"

The hesitance in Puck's guilt-ridden voice confirm that the situation is in fact _worse_ than he'd already been imagining. He hangs up his phone, not allowing his friend to elaborate or make excuses, and knowing it wouldn't possibly matter; what matters is what's sickening him to his very core, and it's the fact that somewhere in a different part of the city, the woman he loves is under the impression that he's some dirtbag, or more like a veritable _pimp_ who invites hordes of women up to his office every day.

He'll knock on every door in New York City until he finds her; he knows that much is true. What he's not so sure of is whether or not she'll slam it in his face.

* * *

 **TBC...**


	9. Here and Gone

**Well, now that I've pissed everyone off! LOL.** **I'm afraid this chapter might make you hate me even more, but not to worry, happy endings for Finchel are always promised in my fics! I'm also working toward most of the characters redeeming themselves (even Jesse, who believe it or not I don't hate at all, he actually amuses me more than anything and he's fun to write).**

 **Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter!**

 **P.S. - I'm having an issue with receiving PMs, so anyone who sent me one in couple weeks, please resend!**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own.**

* * *

For some reason the stairs seem like a quicker option than the elevator. He can't wait, can't stand around pushing buttons, can only rely on his own two feet to carry him to the door that may very well never open for him again, no matter how many times he knocks upon it. He runs up all six flights, his stomach in his throat when he reaches the top, but he can't stop now, not until he can speak to her at least once, if she'll even let him get a word in before throwing him back out onto the streets.

He knocks urgently, not wasting any time. He has a feeling she'll know exactly who it is. "Rachel? Rach, it's me. Open up, please."

His desperate pleas go unanswered for several excruciating moments, until finally he hears the sounds of someone stirring on the other side. Relief captures him as the door slowly opens, disgust taking it's place when he sees the arrogant face staring back at him.

"Hello Finn," Jesse greets him as though he were an unruly intruder. "By any chance, are you aware of time it is?"

His hands clench into fists as he has to literally restrain himself from showing Jesse _exactly_ what time it is. "Just let me talk to Rachel," Finn says tightly.

"Well I'm afraid she doesn't wish to speak to you at this ungodly hour of night," Jesse tells him, his tone patronizing. "In fact she'd prefer if you ceased all contact with her indefinitely. Now if you don't mind, please see yourself out before you wake up half the building."

"I'm not going anywhere until _she_ tells me that herself," Finn seeths.

Jesse just shrugs, clearly enjoying being on the other side of the door; the side _Finn_ should be on instead. "Fine. I'll let the police handle it then. Rachel warned me their services might be necessary if you couldn't keep your temper at bay. She said you had a tendency to-"

"Jesse, no," Rachel speaks from somewhere inside the tiny apartment. "Come on now, you know that isn't necessary."

Finn can't help but leap toward the sound her voice, or as much as he can without crossing the human barrier that is Jesse. "Rachel! Rachel, just talk to me, please!" he calls out to her.

She enters the living room, her bathrobe wrapped around her tiny body, the distress evident in her face as she purposefully avoids his pleading gaze. "Finn, I think you need to leave," she tells him, her voice small but firm.

"Yes, that'll be all Finn, thank you," Jesse says, beginning to actually close the door himself before Finn holds out a hand to stop it.

"Rachel, please," he repeats desperately. "What you saw this afternoon at my office was _not_ what it looked like."

"Oh come now, Finn, we all know with guys like you it's always _exactly_ what it looks like," Jesse interjects.

"You know what, this _really_ doesn't concern you," Finn tells him through gritted teeth. He knows he can't go all neanderthal like he wants to, but he's had about enough of this smug-faced douche acting as if he's Rachel's appointed bodyguard.

"I meant what I said Finn," Rachel says, looking him in the eye this time. "You need to leave... _Now_."

His heart sinks as he hears the hard finality in her tone. He knows her steely exterior is only hanging by a very thin thread; he can see it in her eyes glazed with unshed tears, her bottom lip trembling ever so slightly. He holds her gaze intensely from where he stands outside the door like an unwelcome guest, knowing she'll break if he presses her any further. "Alright," he gives in. "I'll go now, if that's what you want."

He knows he could easily force his way into her apartment after pushing Jesse to the side, and grab her shoulders and look deep into her eyes while he begs for her forgiveness. He could stand there all night pleading his case...although what case does he have really? He's no good for her, and never has been. He'll only continue to be a stain on what should be a beautifully untarnished life for her. He'll plead _one_ case, though, and it's the only one he knows would stand up against any jury in any court in America.

"I love you, Rachel," he tells her, his voice breaking. "If you believe nothing else about me, please believe that. And I'll always be here for you if you need me...But if you need me to not be here, I can do that too."

Her tears are flowing freely by now, and she lets out a choked sob before dropping her head into her hands. The sight makes his heart ache, but he's made up his mind now, and he has to go.

"Alright, Finn. Goodnight," Jesse says, closing the door on him once again, Finn not lifting a hand to stop it that time.

He takes the elevator instead of the stairs, the enclosed contraption plummeting at a rate similar to that of his battered heart.

* * *

She hadn't even felt like attending that cast party at _Valerio's_ , well, maybe just a brief appearance to soak in the some of the celebratory vibe, and avert any 'diva' rumours from the media. She's a Tony Nominated actress, her performances have received nothing but raves as of late, and it appears that all her years of scuffling as a young ingenue on the theater scene are _finally_ paying off. But to be honest, the only person she'd _really_ felt like celebrating with was her Finn, the pride and enthusiasm in his voice when she'd called to share the news making her all the more eager to rush home into to his warm, waiting arms.

If only the dream had ended there.

 _She feels her eyes still burning with unshed tears as she enters the crowded restaurant. It's probably fitting that she's here in celebration of her first Tony nomination; she'll need to put her acting skills to good use if she's going to appear as something other than the emotionally shattered and confused woman she is at present. So she shines it on to the best of her ability, following the hostess through the upscale dining area and into the private room Artie has reserved for the occasion._

" _There's our star!" Artie exclaims when she enters._

 _She cracks what she hopes will pass for a smile, her insides still storming with distress as the entire room cheers her arrival as though she were the guest of honor. It's clear that plenty of champagne has already been poured, the mood celebratory and vibrant. It's all she can do to swallow the lump in her throat as her fellow cast and crew mates proceed to shower her with praise and congratulations. Despite her turmoil, it isn't long before someone hands her a drink of her own. She tosses it back, the liquor burning her not nearly as badly the memory of what she witnessed at Finn's office only one hour previously._

 _Someone hands her another drink, and then another, and well people just won't stop handing her drinks, probably because she keeps on drinking them. She stops short of getting sloppy, the alcohol doing its job as she tosses her head back laughing at the thing Artie just said that she assumes was a hilarious joke. It was, the resounding laughter in the room confirming as much. She motions for the waiter to bring her another round, deciding she'll just keep on drinking and laughing and forgetting herself as the night wears on._

 _Her laughter has long subsided by the time the waiter returns to place another drink in her hand. She wastes no time bringing the full glass to her eager lips when a familiar voice says, "Congratulations, Rachel."_

 _She turns and sees Jesse standing in front of her, the look in his eyes practically sobering her on the spot. "Thank you," she says uncomfortably._

" _Looks like you're enjoying the open bar."_

 _She sighs, wishing she could just slip into character and recite some scripted lines professing her eternal love for him right about now. That always seems to be easier than interacting with him in real life. "Look Jesse I know you're probably feeling some resentment towards me, but you should know that-"_

" _I don't resent you, Rachel," he interrupts her. "Your nomination is one-hundred-percent warranted and deserved. Do I wish the Committee would've acknowledged my own contributions to the production? Of course. But you know what it typically means when a young professional like yourself gets singled out?"_

" _What?" she asks warily._

" _That they're destined for stardom," he says with a smile._

 _She smiles in return, happy to at least keep the peace. "Well I guess we'll see. And just so you know, I_ do _think your lack of acknowledgement was an oversight. And I'm sure this is only the start of what's sure to be a lengthy and dynamic career for you as a performer."_

 _She goes on flattering him; she always was an articulate drunk, and the expression on Jesse's face assures her that he agrees wholeheartedly with every word of her at least semi-genuine sentiment. She's glad, as these coming days will be a whole lot easier for her if she can forge some sort of camaraderie with her co-star, however superficial it may be._

He stops her eventually, surprisingly enough, asking, "Rachel are you alright?"

" _What? Yes, of course I am," she tells him. It's only then that she really HEARS the sound of her own voice, the melancholy and the just-barely-keeping-it-togetherness that underlies her fake pleasantries and loud laughter. Really though, she hadn't expected Jesse of all people to pick up on it._

" _You're eyes look a little red and puffy...like you've been crying," Jesse observes, studying her face a bit more closely. He raises his eyebrows in question. "Tears of happiness, I assume?"_

She clears her throat awkwardly, her eyes dropping to the floor. "I'm fine, Jesse. Really, I'm just feeling a bit overwhelmed by all of this."

" _Well I can understand that," Jesse states. "Seems like your boyfriend would be of some comfort at a time like this?"_

" _Which one?" she asks sarcastically. "I'm sure you read the story on Jacob Israel's blog."_

 _Almost as if on cue her phone buzzes inside her purse. It's been buzzing all evening, and she's been ignoring it, knowing it's Finn every time. She notices the satisfied smirk pulling at Jesse's lips as he says, "I know as well as you do, Rachel, that stories like that are nothing but lies and exploitation. What I can't overlook, however, is what's staring me straight in the face."_

" _Oh and what is that exactly?"_

" _Well, contrary to what the rumours have implied, I don't see you enjoying the company of multiple men...In fact, I don't see you enjoying any at all."_

" _And I suppose you think_ your _company is the exception to that assessment?"_

" _No as a matter of fact I don't," Jesse smirks. "But what I am sure of is that you wouldn't be here, by yourself, crawling inside a bottle of vodka if there were someone waiting for you back home."_

 _His words cut through her, the reality sobering despite the alcohol in her system, and she can feel her composure beginning to waver. It's not that Finn_ isn't _waiting for her; it's just that she can't actually go home to him tonight, not when he's just spent the majority of his day pimping on every woman in New York._

 _She knows that's an exaggeration of theatrical proportions, and that it's unlikely Finn's been pimping on ALL the woman in New York (probably only three or four) and New York is quite a big city, big enough to ensure that one man could not possibly patronize the whole of its female demographic individually within the scope of one day, also consider the fact that many women, if not MOST, would oppose turning their own bodies for profit in such a way, although it's CERTAINLY their prerogative to do so and is in no way shameful should a woman chose to-_

 _...Anyway. She knows Finn's not pimp. She knows because she knows HIM, and loves him, and sees his soul every time she looks deep into his eyes. She'd believed with all her heart that he felt the same about her, and while that might very well be the case, there are clearly certain aspects of his past (the naked ones) that he's reluctant to leave behind._

" _Rachel?" Jesse's voice stirs her from her daze. She can see through her now tear-filled eyes that his expression resembles something in the realm of compassion._

 _She swallows thickly, gathering herself, then says, "Jesse I think I need to get out of here."_

 _She doesn't mean to imply anything - certainly not THAT - but when Jesse seizes the opportunity to take her home safely, she can't exactly refuse. The alcohol has taken its toll on her by that point, leaving her in no position to be navigating the streets of New York at night on her own. Some wise person once warned her never to mix vodka with heartache, that it made for one devastating cocktail, and oh were they ever right._

 _She can't lie and say that Jesse is anything less than chivalrous as he helps facilitate her exit from the party. It's not hard, as most of the cast and crew too buzzed on their own liquor by now to notice their lead actress teetering dangerously on her feet as Jesse guides her out the door. By some miracle she's able to recite her address coherently to the cab driver, and eventually makes it back to her apartment with Jesse following close behind. She neither invites him in, nor slams the door in his face, and they end up standing at the foot of her bed, looking at one another._

 _She's fighting the urge to vomit (not because of him, or at least not entirely) when she realizes he has no intention of taking advantage of her; not in a physical sense, that is, and while he's still every bit as conniving and contemptuous as ever it's clear that the one thing he's not is attracted to her. He never has been, honestly, the advances he's made on her in the past being only for the literal purpose of advancing his own career. He still has that same agenda, her rising success making the idea of a fake PR romance all the more attractive to him, no doubt...and yet somehow the realization that he finds her as unappealing off-stage as she does him actually helps redeem him in her eyes, even if it's only thanks to copious amounts of liquor clouding her vision. She still doesn't exactly like him, and can forever and always trust his motives to be shady when it comes to her...but at least she can say she trusts that; she trusts that she can't trust him, if that makes sense. And it doesn't; it's ABSURD, really, for her to take solace in such twisted logic as that. She does it anyway though, and has to, because nothing else in her world seems stable at the present moment._

" _You should get some rest, Rachel," Jesse says. He goes to pick up her trash can and place it down beside her bed._

" _Thank you," she tells him softly._

 _He just nods. "I'll stick around a little while in case you need anything," he tells her before exiting from her room, shutting the door behind him._

 _Darkness captures her in its grip immediately, exposing what she thought she could bury inside a bottle. She's exhausted, however, barely conscious of crawling into bed and falling into a deep sleep, her phone still buzzing with Finn's texts._

 _It's still the dead of the night when she's awakened by the sound of someone's rather incessant knocking. In her state of sleepy, still half-drunken confusion it's hard for her to discern whether someone's actually knocking on a door or on the walls of her buzzing brain. Several moments pass, the knocking not subsiding, before she hears someone shuffling around out in her living room._

 _Who's knocking and who's answering? She wonders._

 _Finn's voice cuts through her confusion, the urgency in his tone making memories of the past twelve hours come rushing to the forefront of her mind. She then hears Jesse, and the smugness voice as he attempts to deny Finn entrance into her apartment. She groans, unsure of what to do as she overhears the two men having a tense exchange of words out in the living room. She doesn't want to see Finn, especially not in the state she's in, but she doesn't want Jesse thinking he can just speak on her behalf either._

 _So she wrenches herself out of bed, her stomach rolling as she throws her bathrobe on over the clothes she's yet to change out of, and manages to poke her head out the door just in time to hear Jesse utter something about calling the police._

" _Jesse, no!" she hisses from the doorway. "Come on now, you know that isn't necessary."_

 _Finn calls out to her, the desperation in his voice assuring her he knows_ exactly _what she discovered at his office that afternoon...or at least what she_ thinks _she discovered. She walks out into the living room, the sight of Finn making her heart ache impossibly more than it already does. He's obviously frantic, his eyes pleading for her mercy as Jesse bars his entrance into her apartment. She knows this is all backwards and corrupt, and that it should be_ Finn _who's on this side of the door, the same side she's on._

 _But she can't give in, can't fall back into his arms and just believe him when he insists 'it's not what it looks like' and 'it's not what you think.' She hurts too much, and HE hurt her too much, and she's so tired and confused and drunk and stupid._

 _So she tells him, for the last time, that he needs to leave; because he does, right now, before his heartbreakingly sad eyes succeed in lowering her defenses. But he does lower them, and she does break down upon hearing the sincerity and conviction in his voice when he tells her he loves her, that he'll always be here for her, even if he's gone…_

It's morning now, or at least it is for her, the clock striking noon by the time she feels presentable to the world again, her hangover in full swing as she downs yet another glass of water. Not surprisingly, her head is a whirlwind of convoluted thoughts. The events of the past twenty-four hours play out like a literal circus inside her mind, out of which she can only attempt to distinguish the facts from the fiction.

She _thinks_ she's a Tony Nominated actress. That part she at least hopes is an actual fact and not fiction; and it is in _fact_ a fact, the string of ecstatic text messages and barely-coherent voicemails from her fathers confirming as much. She can't help but smile as she hears the proud elation in both their voices. She'll call them back later, after she's gathered more of her thoughts.

She resumes scrolling through her unread messages, her heart sinking like a stone when she sees the numerous texts from Finn. His pleading eyes haunt her as she relives last night's dreaded events. As much as she'd hoped it had all been a fever dream, she knew from the moment she'd regained consciousness that morning that some serious, possibly unfixable damage has been done.

Is this whole thing just one giant overreaction on her part? She _has_ had a tendency to do so in the past, or so she's been told. And it _did_ occur to her, even as she'd proceeded to down glass after glass of expensive champagne at the cast party last night that she hadn't _actually_ caught Finn shoving dollar bills under the girls' g-strings by any means. Truth be told, he'd been nowhere in sight. He could've been someplace else entirely. She knows he works among neanderthals, that mohawk from the gym being one of them, and that this could all have very well have been _his_ doing, and not Finn's.

But of course she can't know any of that for sure, can't grant Finn the benefit of the doubt simply because she might want to.

Also, despite her own flare for dramatics, she imagines most women in her position would've reacted much the same. Or, _scratch that_ ; she actually shudders to think of what a woman like Kitty would do if they were to casually pay a little mid-afternoon visit to their boyfriends' office, only to discover a band of strippers anticipating his arrival.

And she imagines Finn's genitals would be marinating in a jar by now if her wrath were similar to that of her old friend Quinn Fabray's. _Yikes_.

She nods in agreement with her own thoughts, deciding that all things considered, the reaction _she'd_ had was actually quite tame. Finn's a lucky man. He really, truly is. He's so lucky that he's probably somewhere across town, his genitals fully in tact, feeling like a broken man in every other sense of the word.

She's nearly dissolves into tears at the thought, his sad, heartbreaking eyes hovering in her mind's eye. Enough is enough, she decides, and she has to at least hear him out, has to let him say the things he'd wanted to last night before she'd allowed Jesse of all people to close the door on him indefinitely.

 _Jesse_...oh God. She cringes to think that he'd actually been here, had answered the door to her apartment when Finn came knocking in the dead of the night. She can only imagine how that must have appeared to him, the kinds of places his mind would've naturally gone to when he saw a scene like that playing out before his eyes. He's all wrong, though, and she hadn't slept with Jesse out of spite, hadn't felt the slightest urge to even _kiss_ him when he'd stood at the foot of her bed after escorting her home last night. Even in her drunken state, she would've never wanted to hurt Finn _that_ badly. She needs to make him understand at least that much, her motives not entirely unselfish as she yearns to explain it wasn't _her_ dishonorable actions that have put their relationship in jeopardy.

She grabs for her phone, all the more anxious to speak directly to Finn, and not through a barrier in the form of Jesse. Her brow furrows, however, when her call goes directly to voicemail. She knows he could very well be avoiding her, or just giving her some space; the sentiments she'd expressed last night would've understandably prompted him to do just that. Space is the last thing on her mind at the moment as she gives up calling his cell phone and tries his office number instead. She just hopes it isn't one if his lady friends who answers, she thinks cynically to herself, although not really meaning it.

The person who eventually does answer is clearly a male, although clearly not Finn.

"Um, hi," she says confusedly before asking, "May I speak with Finn Hudson please?"

"Sorry, he's not here," the man informs her.

"Oh...well do you happen to know-"

"You're the Rachel chick, aren't you?" the man asks.

"Well...yes," she answers, his phone etiquette not charming her in the least. "My name is Rachel Berry, actually, and I was really just hoping I could speak with Finn Hudson. If you wouldn't mind telling me of his whereabouts, I'd appreciate it."

She hears the man sigh a bit on his end before explaining, "Look Finn's not gonna be around for a while. He's...somewhere."

"Wh-what? Well where is he?" she asks, her voice breaking. "Look I'm not a client, I'm actually a close personal acquaintance of Finn's and I-"

"Yeah, I know you are, Berry," he cuts her off. "And it's probably a good thing you called here, because I owe you an apology."

"Oh and why's that?" she asks, her patience wearing thin. "And while you're at it, would you mind telling me who you are, and where my boyfriend is?"

"Look, I didn't kidnap him or anything, and I can't tell you exactly where he is at the moment, but what I can tell you is that shit you walked in on yesterday was not Finn's fault...it _my_ fault, actually. And I'm sorry."

She blows out a frustrated breath, not seeing how she can just take the word of this rather impolite stranger whose name she has still yet to learn. "Well, I suppose any good wingman like yourself would gladly take the rap for one of his friends," she says skeptically.

"It's not like that, Berry," he tells her. "Finn's my boy, but I know how much your tight little ass means to him. Maybe I didn't believe it at first because none of that touchy-feely shit's in my vocabulary, but I get it now, and I know for a fact he would never hurt you because I've never in my life seen the dude go as crazy as he went last night when I told him what I…"

"What you what?" she asks, inspiration striking as she reaches for her laptop.

"Well to be honest, Berry, you've sorta been a pain in my ass without even knowing it. Finn's productivity around here has been shit ever since you downward-dogged him in yoga class, or whatever you did that got him hooked. He's been so juiced on your Jew Berry these past few weeks that he almost lost _Sam Evans_ , the biggest client this agency has ever handled."

"Well I'm sorry to be the bane of your existence, Noah."

"Yeah, well...wait, did you just call me _Noah_?" he asks confusedly.

"Why yes as a matter of fact I did," she answers, her brief Google search pulling up the Sylvester & Shuester website. She had a feeling it was Finn's mohawk-headed friend she was speaking with, and the photo accompanying his employee bio proves her suspicions correct.

"People typically call me Puck," he informs her.

"That's nice, Noah," she replies. "Now, you were saying something about my presence being a detriment to yours as well as Finn's career, life, and general well being?"

"It's not all like that, Berry."

"Okay then tell me how it actually is?"

"It's just that Finn's been my partner in crime since day one...or, I don't mean in _actual_ crime, but just, you know, we have each other's backs and the Evans deal was supposed to be a joint operation between the two of us, my brother Jake included. There was a hell of a lot at stake, as you can imagine, which was why I didn't take too kindly to your distracting him. No offense."

Rachel remains silent on her end, her mind hinging on Noah's words "partner in crime," words that he'd been quick to clarify and retract. Her memory jogs back to Finn's private admission to her, his anxiety ridden voice revealing he'd made some illegal bargain with a third party in order to secure the Evans deal. Now, in hindsight, she can see the sort of pressure he'd been feeling from his own friends, understands the drastic measures he'd resorted to in order to keep both his career and theirs afloat. And she can't help but think perhaps this Noah Puckerman character is right, and she has in fact been _so_ great a distraction in Finn's life that she's partly to blame for all this as well.

"Berry?...You still with me?" he asks. He sighs, "Look I'm being a real dick here, aren't I?"

"I'm sure you're just being yourself," she retorts, although her thoughts are mostly elsewhere at this point.

"I'm _not_ right," he assures her. "And what happened yesterday was entirely my doing, not Finn's. I just wanted to loosen him up a little so I invited a few of my very long list of girls over to surprise him. It was mostly just a prank, and the girls were really for me anyway. Finn's my boy, I admit that, but I promise you I'm not just trying to get him out of jail for free."

She nearly gasps out loud, Noah's words unintentionally making her blood run cold. That "jail" comment was just a figure of speech, but with Rachel knowing what she knows, she can't help but take it literally. "Noah," she begins, her voice possibly as serious as it's ever been. "I need you to tell me where Finn is. Can you do that for me, please?"

He sighs wearily before answering, "To tell you the God's honest truth, Berry, I don't know. The only message he left me this morning said that was going away for a while. He didn't say for how long…"

She nods slowly in stunned silence. Oddly enough she believes Noah, his voice uncharacteristically sincere as he tells her all he knows. "I have to go," she tells him, a newfound urgency in her voice. "Thank you for your help."

"Sure thing. And hey, if things don't work out and you can't find Finn, hit me up. I'm a Jew, y'know."

"Yeah, noted," she rolls her eyes. Apparently there's never an inappropriate time to hit on your best friend's girl.

"But Berry?" he adds before she can hang up.

"Yes Noah?"

"I really hope you find him."

* * *

They pick up on the first ring, just as she figured they would, and she wouldn't be surprised if she was on speakerphone and her entire extended family was listening in as well.

"Princess!" her Dad's ecstatic voice answers.

"Excuse me Hiram, but I do believe it is Tony Award Nominee Rachel Barbra Berry with whom we are speaking!"

"Yes _of course_ Leroy, but I didn't think such a formal salutation was appropriate considering she'll always be our precious little-"

Her fathers continue their argumentative banter, making her head spin more than it already is. "Um, hello? Dads?" she speaks, getting their attention.

"Oh sweetheart, yes, how are you? Are at home? Are you at a cast party? Has Barbra called to congratulate you yet? I swear if there isn't already a photo of you hanging on the wall at _Sardi's_ I'm going to-"

"Daddy, please," she chuckles. "I don't think Barbra has my number."

"She will, darling, she will soon enough!"

"Oh Rachela, we're just so elated to hear the news. We always knew your dreams would come true, sweetheart, it was only a matter of time."

She smiles, the pride and enthusiasm in their voices making her heart swell in spite of her inner turmoil. "Well I owe it all to you guys, honestly."

"Nonsense, you deserve every bit of the credit," Hiram insists.

"Well her NYADA tuition certainly didn't pay itself," she hears Leroy mutter.

"Uh, Dads?" she asks before they begin bickering again. "As much as I appreciate your support, there's something I need to speak to you about."

"Oh no, sweetheart, is something wrong? Has someone from Hollywood offered you a movie role but you're conflicted by its lack of artistic integrity?"

"Perhaps they want her to do a nude scene. Or, God forbid get a nose job!"

"It's not that," Rachel groans, her hand now resting miserably against her open palm.

"Well what is it?" Leroy presses. "Please do enlighten us, darling, the suspense is not good for either one of our hearts."

She sighs, already regretting the can of worms she's about to open before the words leave her mouth. "I just...need a favor," she explains hesitantly.

"A favor?" Hiram questions. "Why of course, pumpkin, you needn't even ask."

"Well let's see what she wants first," Leroy adds skeptically.

"It's a legal matter, actually," she continues. "I just-"

" _A what_?" both her fathers gasp at the same time.

"Rachel Barbra Berry don't tell me you're in trouble with the law?"

"It's not me, Daddy," she explains wearily before deciding to just come right out with it. "It's a friend of mine. I have reason to believe he may be in jail, and I need one of you to perform a search to find out if he is or not."

" _He_?" Hiram repeats, aghast.

"Oh because _that's_ the part to focus on," Leroy condescends.

"Well I should say it is, especially when our daughter has concerns about some deranged punk being on the loose!"

"It's not like that," Rachel insists, needing them both to just be silent for once. "Look, I assure you I am perfectly safe and that there is no cause for concern on either of your parts'. This friend of mine happens to be a wonderful man whom I believe may be in some trouble, and those are the only details I'm willing to share with you at the moment."

"Well young lady," Hiram scoffs, "I'm afraid you're going to have to explain yourself in far greater detail than that if you expect any assistance from us. We may both be attorneys, but first and foremost we're your fathers."

"I don't know why she doesn't just look it up for herself," Leroy muses out loud. "Arrest records are public, after all."

"Leroy! Don't tell her that!" Hiram chastises his husband.

She groans, now wishing she'd thought to seek out the information for herself instead of involving her fathers in this whole elaborate mess. _Rookie mistake_ , she figures. "You know Dads on second thought I'm probably just overreacting," she says, feigning an air light-heartedness that she knows they won't buy.

"Now just a minute, young lady!" Hiram scolds. "You can't expect to get off that easy, not after what you've just told us!"

Her fathers continue berating her with questions and demands, both talking over one another in a frenzy that soon becomes one incoherent stream of noise blaring through her phone. She's about to just hang up altogether, wondering if they'd even notice at this point, when a very well-timed knock at the door gives her a reasonable motive to excuse herself. "Oh, someone's at the door, Dads, I have to go! Love you, bye!"

She hangs up eagerly, not before hearing her Daddy gasp, "Maybe it's Barbra!"

She exhales in relief before shutting off her phone, temporarily removing herself from what's sure to be an unending string of calls and texts from her fathers until she further explains what she now regrets sharing with them to begin with. For now, though, she makes her way over to the door, briefly noting her bathrobe-clad appearance and hoping it's not _actually_ Barbra who's knocking (although surely she would have the courtesy to call first).

But when she pulls the door open, the woman standing outside is most definitely not Barbra, nor is she the kind of woman that would _ever_ have the courtesy to call first.

"Nice robe," the Latina says in a tone that's non-complementary.

Rachel admits she barely recognizes the woman with, well, _any_ clothes on, let alone the formal attire she's dressed in. She figures it must be a costume, some "sexy business woman" gimmick she does at bachelor parties for perverted men.

But that wouldn't even remotely explain what she's doing _here_ , on Rachel of all people's doorstep.

"Uh, I'm sorry but you _must_ have the wrong apartment," she tells her, unable to keep from chuckling humorlessly. "Perhaps one of my neighbors called to request your _services_ , but it certainly wasn't me."

"Oh, calm your tits, dwarf - if you even have any," the Latina claps back. "Believe it or not, I'm here to talk straight...well, maybe not _straight_ , but I do have a proposition for you."

"Well I think I can preemptively decline whatever that may be. Especially when you've done _so much_ for me already," she says condescendingly. "Now, if you'll kindly vacate my doorstep, I'll-"

She's silenced by the Latina's lips, suddenly smashed against hers in a passionless, yet shockingly unexpected kiss. Rachel wrenches herself away, eyes wide, her mouth gaping. "What in God's name is the matter with you?" she shrieks. "Although I assure you my reaction is not homophobic, but rather one of a woman that doesn't take kindly to being kissed by someone she hardly knows!"

"That's not what I heard," the Latina scoffs. "And, well, as unarousing as that was, your mouth still gets my lady loins brewing hotter than your boyfriend's ever could."

"Alright, well that has go to be the _single most_ inappropriate sentence I have ever heard spoken out loud," she retorts, still powerless to comprehend what's even going on here. "Then again, look who I'm talking to."

"Oh Lord," the Latina groans. "Do you even catch my drift, midget, or do I have to sing it in the form of a showtune? Which I don't do, by the way."

"Well, you'll have to forgive me if all of your wildly nonsensical motives appear lost on me, Miss Whatever-Your-Name-Is."

"It's Santana Lopez," she informs her irritably. "And no, I don't forgive you, but I'll spell it out for you as needed. You see this? _Alla this right here?_ " she gestures, pointing to her impressive figure, "Not on board the Penis Express...well it's not my _preference_ , at least, let's just put it that way. Now, was that clear enough for you or do I really have to say it in a Julie Andrews voice?"

"Your implications are clear, _Santana_ ," Rachel replies coolly. "Crystal, in fact. I just don't see how you expect me to buy into them after I witnessed your very brazen flirtations with my boyfriend right before my eyes."

"Oh please, your little ass wasn't even bagging him back then," Santana argues, referring to that day at the gym.

"Alright. I'll concede you on that," Rachel agrees, crossing her arms over her chest before stating pointedly, "But that's of rather miniscule importance, considering the scenario I walked in on just two days prior to this one. From what I gathered, you and your, uhm, _co-workers_ seemed quite eager in their anticipation of Finn's arrival."

The Latina falls silent, throwing off the cadence of their back-and-forth banter. Her eyes drop to the floor, and her voice is uncharacteristically vulnerable when she speaks up again. "I wasn't, actually," she says quietly.

"You weren't what?" Rachel asks skeptically.

"I wasn't _eagerly anticipating_ your boyfriend's gigantic arrival, okay?" Santana snaps. She blows out a sigh before continuing, "Look, Finn and I aren't into each other like that. We're old friends, we met in college."

" _College?_ " Rachel asks, dumbfounded.

"Yes, _college_ ," Santana reiterates, taking offense to Rachel's visible disbelief. "See, I'm just as bougie as you are, minus the doting parents paying every dollar of my tuition. Some of us have to pay our _own_ way, and as I've learned over the past few years, having a round ass and a nice pair of tits will get you out of debt a hell of a lot faster than a Sociology degree will. It's a harsh reality, but hey, I don't make the rules."

Rachel feels herself crossing and uncrossing her arms over her chest as though searching for an appropriate stance to take, both in terms of posture and opinion. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"Of course you did," Santana interrupts.

"Okay fine," Rachel agrees. "But...can you blame me?"

Santana sighs, her head nodding from side to side in contemplation before she reluctantly admits, "No, not really." Another pause as she debates whether to speak the words on the tip of her tongue. Finally she does, adding, "And hey, I really am sorry about what happened the other day."

Rachel takes a long look at the woman standing outside her door, still slightly baffled as to why she's kept it open for as long as she has. Instincts tell her she probably should've _shut_ the door several minutes prior, and yet something in the uninvited guest's ulterior motives, calculated as they may be, strike her as surprisingly authentic. She's already seen _way_ more of this woman's busty physique than she ever bargained for, but suddenly the fiery Latina appears oddly eager to expose herself _emotionally_ as well; Rachel can only guess as to why that is, but she's intrigued nonetheless.

She nods decidedly to herself, her voice hitting a note that's semi-friendly and hospitable as she asks, "Santana would you like to come inside for a minute?"

The words are barely off her tongue before the Latina has already pushed passed her and into the apartment, telling her, "I take my coffee black."

"Shocking," Rachel mutters before closing the door.

* * *

Moments later, the coffee now brewed, Rachel's still marveling at the uninvited-turned- _invited_ guest currently seated at her kitchen table. They're still sizing each other up in silence, both their feminine guards' drawn up like the steam rising from the two coffee mugs sitting between them. There's a slight smirk turning up the corners of Santana's lips, clearly not the least bit humbled by the fact that she's now _inside_ Rachel's kitchen sipping her Brazilian dark roast instead of standing out in the hall.

"Well," Rachel begins awkwardly, "You'll forgive me if I'm still overwhelmingly curious as to what exactly is your angle here? Surely you didn't knock on my door in hopes of us exchanging girly chit chat over coffee."

"Well usually the kind of 'girly' stuff I do you wouldn't be interested in," Santana replies crudely.

"Yeah, I got a little taste of that earlier," Rachel scoffs, then adds, " _Literally_."

"And you're right, I never would've dragged myself over to this puke-ishly quaint little neighborhood of yours without some ulterior motive in mind."

"Aaaand what exactly would that be?" Rachel asks. "Clearly I'm not your _type_ , as you've already emphasized. So what is it, Santana? What do you want from me?"

"The question is, what do _you_ want from _me_?" the Latina asks smirkingly.

Rachel sighs warily, her painstaking attempts at conversing with this woman proving to be a hopeless endeavor. "Fine. Would you like a refill or can I show you to the door?"

"I know where the door is," Santana replies condescendingly. "And _yes_ , I'll take a refill while you're at it."

Rachel can only roll her eyes as she begrudgingly stands to retrieve the coffee pot despite her rapidly thinning patience. "Boy, that must have been one Charm School of a college you attended," she quips.

"It was _N.Y.U.,_ actually. Maybe you've heard of it," Santana adds spitefully. "And yes, they did offer a course in bullshit pleasantries, but I never attended."

"Well, that's quite apparent."

"And you aren't always so _pristine_ yourself, from what I've heard."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Rachel defends. Good Lord, she's in her kitchen, in her own apartment, serving coffee to a foul-mouthed stripper who has the nerve to insult _her_ integrity.

"Go on, ask me," Santana says, narrowing her eyes at Rachel, who's just refilled her cup.

"What?"

"Ask me if I ever slept with Finn. I'm sure you're far too much a lady to ask it outright, but I know you're curious, so go ahead."

"I'm not in the least bit interested," Rachel claims.

"Sure you are...and I haven't," Santana reveals after a pause.

Okay so maybe she _was_ interested, provided the answer was one she actually wanted to hear; which, thankfully, it is, at least according to Santana. She shakes her head in confusion, saying, "I...I mean just would've assumed-"

"Yeah, well, don't assume things," Santana cuts her off. "And we did try hooking up once back in college but he kept stopping the action to ask if I was okay, so I told him to hop off before we even got started. He's sweet, but I don't do feelings...at least not _during_."

Rachel can't help but smile as she thinks of a younger, less experienced Finn fumbling clumsily through a heated make-out session with the aloof Latina, only to be sent straight to the cold showers on account of his chivalry. She can't think about it for too long, though, before it triggers a whole new onslaught of questions within her. "Well I suppose it's none of my business, but what _actually_ did you and Finn used to do on Tuesday nights? Your suggestive words and mannerisms when you approached him at the gym that day did not exactly paint you two as poker buddies in my eyes."

"I'm surprised you even noticed, you were so busy bending over right in front of him," Santana smirks.

"It's called _yoga_ ," Rachel defends.

"Sure. Call it whatever you want."

"And would you stop deflecting?" Rachel demands in frustration. "Just answer the questions you know are still running rampant inside my mind! Why, if you're not on board the 'Penis Express', as you stated, why then do you aggressively flirt with men in public? And why, if Finn's _just a friend_ whose gentlemanly ways abhore you, why then did I find you half-naked in his office, organizing what appeared to be a salacious gang bang?"

The two women stare each other down, their eyes locked in a heated gaze across the table. It takes some persistence on Rachel's part, but after several moments of unfaltering tension, she thinks she can begin to see some of that same vulnerability surfacing through the cracks in Santana's hardened exterior.

"Fine," the Latina relents, her tone softer than normal. She takes a sip of black coffee before continuing, "That thing at Finn's office the other day was none of his doing. Puckerman has me on speed dial - he was one of my first clients but I cut him off when I looked up his credit score. He still calls me when he wants me to hook him up with one of my co-workers. That's what happened yesterday, well, sort of. Puck called and told me to send over a couple of blondes. I _assumed_ he wanted them for himself. Anyway, I stopped by the office just to make sure Candy Cane and Crystal Ball actually made it without getting lost. Neither one of them knows their rights from their lefts. I couldn't find Puck so I checked Finn's office, and there _you_ , Candy, and Crystal all were! Finn's pasty ass never showed up, but after you ran off, the girls and I had a little party of our own and-"

"Alright," Rachel interrupts, holding up a hand to stop her. "That's...fine, thank you for the detailed explanation but I really don't care to discuss that incident any further."

"Fine," Santana shrugs. "And as for the gym thing...Well, the _flirtations_ and stuff you witnessed, it's strictly for advertising purposes. There's a lot of horny meatheads hanging around that place so it's a prime spot for picking up new clients."

"But...Finn's not your client?" Rachel questions.

"I'm _getting_ to that part," Santana snaps irritably. "Sometimes I use Finn as a prop, just to show the pervy onlookers what I'm game for. Sort of like how a magician uses a member of the audience to help demonstrate the kind of tricks he can do. It works like a charm."

"Umm okay?" Rachel shakes her head in what could only be described as confused comprehension. This is all so far removed from her typical school of thought, but at least there's some tiny thread of logic in it that she's beginning to follow. "I mean I guess that would make sense, considering the kind of business _you're_ in."

Santana shrugs, "Yeah well, I was a business major."

"And Finn approves of all this?"

"I never asked him," Santana states pointedly. "And no, your pookie boy Finn doesn't approve. He doesn't enjoy being my prop either, but once he realized he was helping me pay the bills he lightened up a little bit."

"And what about-"

"And _just so you know_ ," Santana cuts her off, "Our Tuesday night booty calls are _literally_ just phone calls. It was a weekly tradition he and I started after college. We'd call each other up just to talk, and play catch up. I started calling them 'Booty Calls' after he got a job with that douchebag sports agency, because it seemed like all he ever did anymore was talk out of his _ass_. That's mostly why I stopped calling him after a while...it just seemed like he'd sort of lost sight of himself." She pauses, then adds bitterly, "Although I know I'm one to talk…"

Rachel's silent for a moment, then sighs. "Well it does sadden me to think of any woman resorting to such desperate measures in order to fund her own college education. I'm sorry you've had to endure that, Santana."

"Don't be," Santana shrugs. "I could've been a singing waitress, or opened a cupcake bakery if I'd wanted to."

Rachel's brow furrows in contemplation as she shakes her head. "I just don't know how you do it. Especially considering your...preference."

"I get my rocks off one way or another," Santana says dismissively. "Besides, half the time the guys just want me to get freaky with another girl while they watch. It all works out fine."

"Um, okay," Rachel says uncomfortably.

"And you can judge all you want, but I pay my Abuela's medical bills with the money those pervs throw at me."

Rachel's eyes drop down to the table. "I'm not judging you," she says quietly.

"Sure you are. But it's okay, because I want out."

"You do?"

"Yes," Santana confirms. "The money's good, but it's not who I want to be anymore."

"Well, I'm sure with a business degree you shouldn't have any problem pursuing a new career path," Rachel reasons.

"I'm not looking for a career in business," Santana tells her. "I'm a singer, actually."

"You are?" Rachel asks in surprise.

"Yeah, a singing stripper, who knew?" Santana says. She straightens her posture in her chair, and her tone is slightly more pragmatic when she speaks up again. "That's what I've been wanting to talk to you about, actually."

Rachel feels her own posture stiffen in her seat as suddenly it's very clear to her what Santana's been after all along. She's no stranger to this kind of thing, she just wonders how she didn't see it coming, especially from the cold, calculating woman sitting across from her. "So, let me guess," she begins skeptically, "You want me to get you a job on Broadway?"

She's a bit thrown off by her reaction, the Latina knitting her brow in confusion at first before breaking into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. Rachel sits perplexed, folds her arms defensively across her chest as she hears the tone of mockery in Santana's in loud chuckling. Finally the laughter subsides, and Rachel's words are thick with agitation as she asks, "And what, may I ask, is so utterly amusing?"

Santana shakes her head, still fighting off spasms of laughter as she looks at Rachel as though she pitied her. "I'm sorry but what you said is pretty damn funny, considering _I'm_ the one who has a job for _you_ ," she reveals, her voice dripping with irony.

Rachel is taken aback at first, then nearly laughs out loud herself when she thinks of the potential job leads a woman like _Santana_ might have to offer. "Well that's awfully kind of you, but I doubt very much that I'd be interested in-"

" _Two words_. Victor Vasquez," the Latina states pointedly.

Rachel shakes her head in confusion. "You mean the director?"

"Oh, so you've heard of him?" Santana smirks.

"Why yes, I'd imagine everyone has. He's quite successful these days. He was slated to direct Barbra in the remake of _Gypsy_ before she-"

"Before she dumped him for Barry Levinson, yeah I know," Santana says.

Rachel rolls her eyes, "Alright well clearly you know your directors. Good for you."

"Oh, I _do_ know my directors. _Very well_ , as a matter of fact," Santana adds with a suggestive chuckle. Her smirk fades slowly as Rachel succeeds in leveling her with an unamused glare. She straightens in her seat, reverting to businesslike tones once again as she continues, "Look, here's the dope. Victor Vasquez is a former client of mine. He hits me up every time he's in the city, or at least he used to before his wife caught on. Anyway, one time when we were together I sang for him, well, _among other things_ , but he said I had a great voice and that he could make a star out of me if he ever found the right role. And, well, it turns out he _has_ found the perfect role for me, but there's a catch...you still listening?"

Rachel nods, unable to suppress her curiosity at this point, despite the skepticism that underlies it.

"Well, the thing is," Santana continues, "This film Victor's directing is about a gang of misfits who sing musical numbers while committing violent crimes. It's like Tarantino, but gayer. Anyway, he wants the cast to be diverse, and he says he'll only give me the role of Anita Gunn if I can find him another ethnic-looking actress who can sing...and _you_ , Jew Berry, just so happen to fit that mold perfectly."

Rachel swallows thickly, trying to maintain an unfazed face as a number of conflicting thoughts go shooting off inside her head like fireworks. She's a Broadway actress, right down to her very core, the bright lights of Hollywood have always appeared just too far out of reach for a girl like her, and yet here's Santana, laying it all out on the table for her as though it were hers for the taking.

But no, this is all some grotesquely unfathomable and _absurd_ proposition she's being baited with here. Surely the Victor Vasquez Santana speaks of is some director of cheap pornos who goes by the same name as an Oscar winner.

"And I suppose Mr. Vasquez employs his _mistress_ to do his casting for him?" she asks, stumbling over her words once she finds them again.

Santana chuckles, reverting to her old sordidly conniving ways as she leans forward onto the tiny kitchen table, her red lips slowly enunciating the words, "Do you even understand the power of blackmail?" Rachel's unresponsive, so she continues, "I know _all_ Victor's dirty secrets. His drug use, his philandering, his bi-curious tendencies. I could ruin him with the press of a button...and he knows it."

Rachel expels a deep breath, not allowing her exterior to break as her eyes narrow in on the smirking face in front of her. "Well if you're such a threat, why doesn't he just give you the role without the condition?"

Santana relaxes back in her seat. "Well I suppose it's a give and take, like anything else," she says with a shrug. "Oh give it up, nose, I know I had you on the edge of your seat as soon as I started talking movies. That story you've always told about being too 'authentic' for Hollywood was just a cover-up in case the directors never came knocking."

"Well you've just got me all figured out, haven't you? Funny, I've never been psychoanalyzed by a _hooker_."

Santana's smirk falls, her face growing more serious. "Look, I wouldn't be here if I didn't think…" she trails off, rolling her eyes before continuing, " _Oh God_ if I didn't think you were really great, okay? One of my sugar daddies took me to see your little show, so I know for a fact that you're _almost_ as talented as me. I know Victor's gonna think so too."

"And how do you know that?" Rachel asks. "I bet he's never even heard of me."

"He will when you win that Tony."

Rachel considers this for a moment, then shakes her head. "I-I'm sorry, I can't do this," she says quickly, standing from her chair. "I don't mean to be rude, but I have some personal matters that need my attention and I need you to please leave."

She's reaching to gather their coffee mugs from the table when Santana takes hold of her wrist. "Say yes, and I'll tell you where Finn is."

Rachel's mouth falls open as a mischievous grin spreads across the Latina's face.

* * *

 **Sorry if the Santana thing seems random, it is a crucial element in the story that you'll see come into play later.**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	10. Surrender Your Ghosts

**Hi friends! Sorry for yet another lengthy delay between updates. Hopefully some of you are still on board with this story. There's more drama to come I'm afraid, but we are nearing the (happy) end. Probably only two more chapters left.**

 **Hope you enjoy :)**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own season 5 Glee.**

* * *

You'd think the train ride from New York to Jersey would've given her ample time to debate whether she should even be here at all. She knows she probably ought to turn around and head back home, but the thought of Finn being right on the other side of the door she's currently standing in front of makes her unable to resist knocking upon it. She just hopes she has the right address. The cleanliness and safe location of the building offer her at least some reassurance, but still, she certainly wouldn't put it past Santana to have led her on some wild goose chase.

Luckily the well-dressed young man who answers bears a striking resemblance to the step-brother Finn once described. " _Rachel Berry?_ " he greets her with wide eyes.

"Um, hello," she says awkwardly, uncertain whether he simply recognizes her from the stage, or if he's at all aware of her connection to Finn.

"Oh Ms. Berry it is such an honor to meet you," he gushes, reaching his hand out to shake hers. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your unexpected visit?"

"Oh, well, first of all, it's an honor to meet _you_ as well," she says graciously, her eyes peering discreetly over his shoulder in search of Finn. He's nowhere in sight, so she returns her full attention to the flamboyant man in front of her. "And I do apologize for bothering you, but I was hoping I could ask for a small favor?"

"Of course, Ms. Berry, anything for you."

She smiles. "Well thank you, Kurt, I—"

"Kurt?" he asks, perplexed. "You know my _name_?"

She swallows thickly before stammering, "Oh, w-well I just—"

"Oh my God!" Kurt gasps, his eyes widening. " _Did I win?_ Like, is this one of those giveaways where a Broadway star randomly shows up at their biggest fan's door and presents them with a pair of orchestra seats?"

Rachel chuckles awkwardly, silently cursing herself for not bringing along some free swag for this man—a signed Playbill _at least_. "Well Kurt, although I'm certain you are _very_ well-deserving of such an extravagant prize, I'm actually just looking for your step-brother."

" _Finn?_ " Kurt replies incredulously, his eyebrows practically hitting the ceiling. "What could my deplorably uncultured step-brother have done to deserve free tickets to a Broadway show?"

"There's no free tickets, actually. That's not why I'm here," Rachel informs Kurt, his pale complexion now reddening with outrage. She won't mention the number of tickets Finn's _already_ been the recipient of, thinking it might send this poor man off into a tailspin. She speaks up again, still unsure of how to approach the subject from hereon. "You see, I'm a friend of Finn's," she blurts out.

"A friend?" Kurt repeats, shaking his head. "Unbelievable. My own brother becomes personally acquainted with a Broadway starlet and the dope doesn't even have the decency to tell me about it."

Kurt continues muttering bitterly to himself, further confirming just how in the dark he is when it comes to her and Finn's relationship.

It is a bit odd, though, that a devoted Broadway fan like himself wouldn't have read Jacob Israel's blog where just days ago Finn's handsome face was shown "canoolding" right alongside her.

"Well, we're not _that_ good of friends," Rachel lies, taking another quick glance over Kurt's shoulder at the tiny apartment behind him. At least one thing she's sure of, Kurt's not hiding Finn's large frame behind the loveseat in his tiny living room. "I became acquainted with him through my co-star, Mercedes Jones," she lies again.

"Oh yes," Kurt nods. "Her husband's the quarterback for the Yankees, right?"

"Yes, something like that," Rachel says. "Anyway, Finn attended a cast party once—although _clearly_ for the sole purpose of wooing Mercedes' husband, who's a client of Finn's, I believe."

"Figures," Kurt huffs.

"Anyway, Finn and I struck up a conversation, and, well, you'll think I'm an opportunist when I tell you this, but I happened to mention that my, err, _nephew_ , is just the biggest Giants fan you ever met in your life, and with his birthday coming up, I just couldn't resist asking Finn if he might be able to finagle some decently-priced tickets for the—you know, the World Superbowl Cup, or whatever you call it. Anyway, lucky for me, Finn was more than happy to oblige, however I'm concerned that he may have changed his cell phone number as I have been unable to reach him all day."

If there were anyone liable to buy that little doozy of a lie she just stumbled her way through, she thinks it might actually be Kurt. She can see his eyes are glazed with disinterest, her talk of sports and football registering as a bunch of gibberish inside his head.

Kurt blinks several times. "Oh," he says flatly. "Well, Finn's number hasn't changed, as far as I know. Did you try him at his office?"

"Uh, well yes I did actually, but he wasn't there. I spoke with his business partner, Noah, but he didn't seem to know of Finn's whereabouts either." She swallows thickly, then adds, "Noah g-gave me your address...He said that Finn might be here."

"Hm," Kurt mutters with a furrowed brow. "Well, I certainly do admire your commitment to finding a memorable birthday gift for your—nephew, is it?"

"Err, yes," Rachel says wearily, not even remembering her own lies at this point. "I mean it's just a bit concerning, you know, for Finn to be so _unreachable_ , almost as if he'd—"

"Oh I just remembered!" Kurt interrupts, almost startling her. He lifts his hand to swat himself on the forehead, as though something obvious has just occurred to him. "I swear if I'm not becoming as forgetful as my Aunt Mildred. Please do forgive me, but it's only _just_ crossed my mind that Finn is actually out of the country at the present time."

"What?" Rachel asks, her whole face scrunching in confusion.

"Yes, he's in Paris as a matter of fact...on business."

Rachel slowly shakes her head. Even _she_ knows that a sports agent like Finn would have no "business" whatsoever in _Paris_ , of all places. Not to mention she _just_ spoke to him yesterday, and saw him at her apartment late last night. No, Paris must be a code for something else.. _.jail, perhaps?_ Well, there's no use in pressing Kurt for information he's obviously not willing to give at this time. She can only be left to wonder _what_ he knows—about her, about Finn, about everything.

"Well, then I guess that little 'favor' he promised me will just have to wait." She hesitates before continuing. "Did Finn happen to mention how long he'd... _be in Paris?_ "

"No, I'm sorry, he didn't say," Kurt tells her. "It was a—rather _impromptu_ trip, from what I understand."

Rachel nods, a new resolve taking over her as she forces a weak smile. "Alright, well...thank you, Kurt. And I do apologize for the imposition."

"I assure you you could never impose on _me_ , Ms. Berry. Just make sure you bring some damn theatre tickets next time," he adds jokingly. They trade small, palpably awkward smiles, Rachel turning to leave before Kurt stops her, "Oh one more thing! If you wouldn't mind, please, I'd love to get your autograph before you go."

"Of course," Rachel obliges.

Kurt vacates the doorway only briefly to retrieve a pen and a small autograph book, two items he apparently keeps by the door along with his keys. She's handing the book back to him after signing the open page, nodding graciously as Kurt showers her with thanks and praise, when suddenly an inspiration hits her like a bolt of lightning. It's more like a bolt of _desperation_ , really, but she decides to run with it anyway, blurting out the words, "Kurt I'll get you free tickets to tonight's show if you can tell me where Finn _really_ is."

Kurt's mouth falls open, a new wave of temptation crashing over him, one he's quick to deny himself of and recover from before he states firmly, "I'm sorry Ms. Berry but I already told you where Finn really is. Best of luck at the Tony's. You're a shoo-in as far as I'm concerned. Goodbye."

The door nearly hits her on the nose when he shuts it abruptly, leaving her alone in the narrow hallway with a feeling of sadness and defeat in her gut. It's just as well Kurt didn't take her up on her little offer anyway; tickets for tonight's show would be near impossible to get, and she's never one to disappoint a fan.

It would've been worth it, though...trading a fan for a Finn.

She sighs. She's got to catch a train back to Manhattan if she's going to be on stage when the curtain draws up tonight.

* * *

He already heard the door close, now he's just waiting for Kurt start yelling at him.

"She's gone! You can come out now," Kurt calls out to him.

Finn sighs, his body feeling like a thousand-pound bag of bones when he rises from the bed in his step-brother's guest room. He enters the tiny living space to find Kurt standing with his hands on his hips, wearing a designer outfit and a frown.

"Thanks for covering for me, man," Finn says, his voice bleak with exhaustion.

Kurt shakes his head, his eyes narrowed in the same direction as the finger he points at Finn. "You owe me," he states. " _Big_."

"I know," Finn sighs, dropping his head into his hand. "Just name your price. I'll pay it."

"Don't you think it's time you stop using _bribery_ to get what you want?"

The words hit him where it hurts, his eyes lifting to meet Kurt's steady, insinuating gaze. He shakes his head, not allowing the smaller man to cut him down to size. "You don't understand the kind of pressure I was under. It felt like all those guys—Puck, Jake, Sam, even Sam's _wife_ were smothering my face with a pillow, and the only way to get them off was to do something drastic."

"Drastically _stupid?_ " Kurt retorts.

Finn opens his mouth to argue but quickly resigns, his shoulders slumping in defeat as he heaves another sigh. He sinks into a chair at the kitchen table, his head feeling like a brick as it drops into his hands. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen. It just...it felt like—"

"It felt like the right thing to do at the time," Kurt finishes his sentence.

Finn lifts his head to look his step-brother in the eye. "Not the right thing. The _only_ thing."

Kurt sighs, his disposition softening, as it typically does once he's said his piece and gotten the judgement out of his system. "Do you want some coffee?" he asks after several silent moments have passed. Finn stifles a huge yawn. "I'll take that as a yes."

"Thanks," Finn says wearily.

"Look Finn, I don't know sports, but I know _you_. You've always internalized a lot of pressure, and I can't _imagine_ working in the field you've chosen, what with all the dollars flying around, and money-grubbing meatheads counting on you to get them their fair share...But that's the thing, Finn—it shouldn't all be on _you_."

"But it _is_ , Kurt. Don't you get it?"

"I get that you feel that way," Kurt argues. "But that's not the way it has to be. I know you're a leader, and you want to carry everybody across the finish line on your shoulders, but...but it's not up to you to be the world's nickelback."

"Quarterback," Finn corrects.

"Or that," Kurt shrugs. "But Finn, do you at least see where I'm coming from here?"

"Yes of course I do, Kurt, but none of that matters now," Finn says in frustration. "What's done is done, I'm the one who screwed up and I'm the one who has to try to undo it."

"Undo it?" Kurt asks. "But I thought you already tried reasoning with that Ken Tanaka fellow and he wouldn't accept your plea."

"That's not what I mean," Finn sighs. "There's no turning back now. Evans is going to sign on the dotted line any minute, and then this will all be a done deal."

"But...won't that be a good thing? I mean as much as I abhor your act of bribery and deceit, I'm ready for this all to be done so you can move on with your life and stop torturing yourself."

"It's not going to end," Finn says bleakly. "It's going to haunt me until somebody finds out. Puck's already suspicious as hell, and if push comes to shove I'd be surprised if he didn't rat me out just to get the scent off him and his brother."

"Puck's your _best friend_ , Finn," Kurt argues.

"No, you don't understand, Kurt! Puck _should_ rat me out, he _should_ cover his own ass, because he's not the guilty one, _I am!_ " He sits back in his chair and breathes deeply for a minute, steadying himself before continuing. "That's why I'm...I'm turning myself in."

"You're what?" Kurt gapes. "Why, because of Puck's 'suspicions'? What makes you think he'd be so quick to throw you under the bus after everything you two have been through?"

"It's not just Puck, Kurt!" Finn argues. "It's the fucking dick-heads from Clarington-Smythe, all those guys have had it out for me ever since Evans became my client. They're going to keep riding my ass and digging up dirt until they find out the truth, I just—I know this isn't going to end well for me, I can _feel_ it. And then there's…"

" _Her_ ," Kurt finishes his sentence. Finn nods silently. "It's _only_ her, isn't it? Face it, Finn, a year ago the thought of getting caught would've given you some sick, twisted pleasure. I believe it's what several of the men in my vintage muscle magazines refer to as an _adrenaline rush_...I mean you told me once that ever since you stopped playing football you've been looking for a way to re-capture those old feelings from your glory days."

"Those weren't my glory days," Finn muses, his voice faraway. "I used to think that throwing a winning touchdown back in high school, or making a shit-ton of money as an agent were the only times I'd ever felt alive...but none of that means anything to me now, Kurt. Not since I…" He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply, "Not since I met her."

Kurt looks at his step-brother in silence, his face creased with concern. "Finn what _is_ this thing with Rachel Berry anyway? Would you mind explaining in a little more detail? Because you haven't really done much of that so far…"

"I'm in love with her," Finn explains with a light shrug. "I really am, Kurt. And I'm not letting any of my mistakes ruin what she's worked her whole life for."

"Oh for God's sake, Finn, don't you think you're being a wee bit dramatic? And that's coming from _me_."

"No," Finn shakes his head adamantly. "No, I'm not letting the day she wins a Tony be the same day her scumbag boyfriend gets dragged away in handcuffs. I can't let that happen, Kurt. It's killing me, _literally_ , but I'd rather she distance herself from me _now_ , before I become the guy who scandalizes her entire public image. It all became so clear to me last night, after she told me to leave her apartment, that she _needs_ to stay away from me, at least for now...It's not worth it. _I'm_ not worth it."

By now Finn's eyes are glazed with tears, a sight never before seen by Kurt, who's finally coming to grasp the intensity of the situation. "Finn, look at me," he says gently.

Finn drags his head up, the act requiring some exertion. Kurt continues, "Has it occurred to you that perhaps it _is_ worth it? That _you're_ worth it, for her?"

Finn stares at his brother in contemplation for several moments before finally dropping his head into his hands and sighing. "Is the coffee ready yet?"

* * *

"You killed it tonight, Rachel! Way to go!"

"Stellar performance this evening, Ms. Berry. Truly one of your best."

"Thank you," she tells them, receiving the praise with a gracious smile. It's times like these when she can't help but wonder if anyone's truly paying attention to her at all. The excessive compliments from her cast and crew as she makes her way backstage all seem a bit misguided considering the clunky, unfocused performance she just delivered out there to a packed house. After going to great lengths to track down Finn, only to come up empty handed every time, she'd felt a sort of dazed hopelessness come over her that, needless to say, didn't lend itself well to the passionate, lovestruck character she was supposed to have been portraying out there tonight. Thankfully, the audience didn't appear to notice as they'd given her not one, but _two_ standing ovations after the show, but she knows she'll need to step up her game before people begin to question her recent success as an actress.

But she'll sort all of that out later, when her head's not swirling with convoluted thoughts...assuming that time ever comes.

"You know, just because you got your Tony nod doesn't mean you should start slacking off now. At least wait until you've actually _won_."

Jesse's condescending tone asserts itself inside of her whirlwind mind as she turns the knob on her dressing room door. It figures that if anyone were to notice that lackluster effort put forth by her tonight, it would be him. He has every right to scold her, she supposes. He _is_ her romantic co-star after all, and the quality of both his and her performance inevitably suffers when one of them's not on their game.

"I'm sorry, Jesse," she sighs, giving in without a fight. "I've had a rough day, but I'll...I'll be better tomorrow night, okay? Promise."

His lack of an instant retort makes her turn her head to look at him. He's leaning against the wall with his arms folded, one of his signature stances when he's about to level her with more patronizing words. Much to her surprise, she sees a degree of softness creep across his features as he studies the exhaustion in her own face. "You should go home and get some rest," he tells her, nodding affirmatively before turning and walking off down the hall.

She expels a deep breath, relieved to at least have _that_ over with for the time being. She enters her dressing room and grabs immediately for her phone, nearly knocking her vanity over in her desperation to see whether she has any missed calls or messages from Finn. Her heart drops when she finds none, her subsequent irritation at her inbox overflowing with berating voicemails from her fathers making her delete every one of them with an exasperated groan. She stops just short of hurling her phone against the wall in frustration when suddenly, _miraculously_ , as though ordained by a God that actually likes her, the screen lights up and it's Finn calling.

"Hello? Finn?" she answers frantically.

"Hi Rach," he says, his voice unreadable.

"Finn where are you? Are you alright? Why have you been ignoring my calls, don't you know I've been worried sick—"

"I'm just doing what you asked, Rach."

"Finn," she exhales deeply, her eyes falling shut as she slowly lowers herself into the chair in front of her vanity, needing to rest her weary body for a moment before she continues. "Finn, I didn't want you to just drop off the face of the earth and never _speak_ to me again. Look, I'm sorry about last night at my apartment. I was drunk and upset, and...look, nothing happened between Jesse and I, _nothing_ , do you hear me? He was just helping me get home safely after the cast party, and _that's it_ , okay? I swear."

"I believe you, Rach," he assures her without hesitation. "And hey, I'm glad Jesse was there to help you out. As much as I hate to admit it, he seems like an okay guy."

There's a hard finality in his tone that puts a feeling of dread in her gut. She tries to keep her voice from shaking as she asks him, "Finn what's going on?"

She hears him exhale a tense breath, and his voice is more emotional when he finally responds, "Rachel I think...I think you need some time. Some time to really think about what you want."

"Finn," she groans, "I don't need _time_. Look, I'm sorry about last night, okay? I didn't mean any of those things that I—"

"That's just it, Rach, don't you get it? Here you are, apologizing to me when _I'm_ the one who's been fucking things up for you since the day you met me."

"How can you even _say_ a thing like that?"

"Because it's true!" he explodes. "Why don't you ask all of your colleagues on Broadway, or your _fans_ , who they think you should date? I guarantee they all want you with a guy like Jesse. And you know what? Maybe they're _right_."

She shakes her head in disbelief, unable to keep from scoffing bitterly. "Believe it or not, Finn, I'm not in the habit of consulting the opinions of _strangers_ when it comes to my love life. But it's nice to know how little you think of me."

There's a pause on his end as he heaves a distressed sigh. "I don't think little of you, Rachel," he says with sincerity. "I think _everything_ of you, and I...I just don't want to be the guy who—"

"God, Finn, would you please just stop this? I think everything of you too, okay, don't you get it? I was _angry_ last night when I sent you away, but I don't care about any of that crap with the strippers, I talked to Puck and he told me how it wasn't even your—"

"Puck?" he interrupts. "Y-You talked to him?"

"Well of course, Finn, did you think I wouldn't try your office number after you _refused_ to answer any of my calls? But anyway, Puck explained everything, Santana too, and—"

" _Santana?_ " he gapes. "But she...I don't even—"

" _It's okay_ , Finn. That's my point. Your friends know how good you are, and I know it too. I love you, Finn, so much, and I want you here with me always. I want us to be a couple, no matter what my fans or colleagues think about it. I want you to come to the Tony's with me and I want to point to you in the audience when I—well, _if_ I win…" She trails off, his silence putting a lump in her throat that she tries to swallow before speaking again, her voice shaking, "Unless you...unless you don't want any of that with me."

"Of course I want that, Rachel," he assures after another intense beat, the despondency in his voice doing little to put her at ease. "I just don't want there to be a split-screen of you winning a Tony and me getting taken away in handcuffs."

She knows he doesn't mean it; not _literally_ , but still the words make her flesh creep and she grips the phone tighter in her hand, trying to keep her voice steady as she asks him, "Finn what's going on? You're scaring me, okay, just...please, just tell me where you are and when I can see you again."

"I'm sorry, Rachel," he says, his voice far away, "I'm so, so sorry…"

"Finn, wait!" she pleads, but it's too late and he's already slipped from her grasp completely, the phone going dead on his end, but not before he tells her he loves her for what she worries might be the very last time. Her pulse races as she frantically tries calling him back, but she can see it's no use and that he's giving her no say in the matter, a fact that enrages her as much as it shatters her heart.

A sudden knock on her door makes her wince. She's in no mood to entertain guests at the moment, and hopes whoever it is will gather as much by her tone of voice as she answers, "Yes?"

"Miss Berry?" Tina asks from the other side of the door. "There's a Mr. Victor Vasquez here to see you."

Ordinarily such a high-profile name would have her leaping with intrigue, but instead she literally feels like she's straining herself as she scrambles to fix her unsightly appearance. There isn't much she can do about her red eyes or the bags underneath them, but she at least forces a polite smile before pulling the door open.

There he is, Victor Vasquez himself, waiting outside _her_ dressing room. Evidently Santana was accurate about the acclaimed director having an interest in her; honestly, though, she would've much preferred it if the sassy Latina had accurately directed her to _Finn_ instead. Somewhere inside of her is a girl still holding onto her last shreds of sanity; that girl understands the propensity of this scenario and does her best to respond graciously as the charismatic older man compliments her performance (which pretty much confirms he wasn't in the audience _tonight_ ).

"Would you like to come in and sit down?" she asks finally, her sanity nudging her to do so.

"I would very much like that indeed, Miss Berry," he responds politely before following her into her dressing room.

She never imagined she'd feel this distracted, and, frankly, _disinterested_ if she ever found herself seated across from one of the hottest directors in Hollywood. She nods along, though, feigning enthusiasm as Mr. Vasquez repeats much of what Santana already relayed to her earlier that day. _Movie...musical...gang of misfits...diverse cast._ All of it gets lost in the chaos swirling inside her head as she struggles to appear focused and receptive to everything he's saying to her. She knows most women in her position would be groveling at his feet right about now; she imagines that's just the sort of reaction a man like Victor Vasquez has grown accustomed to in recent years.

"Do you find my proposition underwhelming, Miss Berry?" he asks suddenly.

"What? Oh no, of course not, Mr. Vasquez," she's quick to reassure him, "I can't tell you how flattered I am that you—"

"Well you should be very flattered," he interrupts. "Not to mention _grateful_."

"Well I-I am, Mr. Vasquez. I can assure you of that…" she stammers uncomfortably, not quite knowing how to respond.

He studies her in silence for a moment, his narrowed eyes sizing her up. "You know...if it were up to me, I wouldn't be here at all."

She swallows thickly. "You wouldn't?"

"I'm afraid not, Ms. Berry," he explains. "Although your look is quite exotic and your talent exceptional, I myself had a woman of a more _urban_ persuasion in mind for this role. Perhaps with a curvier, more voluptuous figure as well, the kind that more of America's population relates to." He pauses, then shrugs, "Ah, but even such an acclaimed director as myself doesn't have nearly as much power in Hollywood as you might think. Most of the studio executives want only thin women with lighter skin on the big screen. It's quite unfortunate, really, but, well, they're the ones who write the checks."

Once again she's unsure of how to respond, or whether she should respond at all. She's certainly gotten off on the wrong foot with this man, her stilted demeanor having offended his obviously fragile ego. Now he's implicating that he'd much prefer to cast an actress who looks and sounds nothing like her. She clears her throat first before assuring him delicately, "Well regardless, Mr. Vasquez, I do appreciate you offering me such an interesting role."

" _Offering?"_ he scoffs. "I beg your pardon, Ms. Berry, but I haven't offered you a thing. I'm merely scoping out potential prospects to appease my superiors, and while admittedly you are a viable candidate, you can bet I'll be keeping my eyes peeled for an actress who better suits _my_ original vision for this particular role." He gives her a pointed look. "Do we understand each other?"

"Of course," she nods agreeably, more than eager to show this man the door and end this suffocatingly awkward encounter. He couldn't have picked a worse night to meet with her, but honestly she's not overwhelmingly impressed with his temperament either, and wonders if working with him in the future is something she could even endure.

"Good," he says, nodding affirmatively before standing from his seat.

She stands too, forcing a smile as she walks him to the door. "I do apologize if I seem a little off-beat tonight," she adds for good measure. "This is my seventh show this week and I'm—well, I fear that I may be coming down with something."

He takes a moment to size her up once again, this time seeming to come to a new conclusion about her as he begins nodding in understanding. "You're tired, Ms. Berry," he says knowingly. "The theatre will do that to a person after a while. But I think you'll find Hollywood schedules to be far less grueling, and far less wasteful of your extraordinary talents."

She's somehow managed to slip back into his good graces as he lifts her hand to his lips, placing a kiss on top of it before bidding her farewell. Some of the cast and crew members gape in awe, whispering loudly to one another as the famous director exits down the hall. He's gone by the time Mercedes rounds the corner, her brow furrowing in confusion at the excitement still lingering in the air.

"What's all the commotion?" Mercedes asks her, clearly oblivious to what just occurred between her and Victor.

"Oh, um...well there was a rumor about Neil Patrick Harris coming backstage," she lies, opting not to tell her rival about her meeting with a Hollywood director. Thank God Jesse is nowhere in sight, otherwise he'd be shooting her daggers right about now. "But it was a false alarm," she adds after a beat, exhaling in relief as Mercedes mutters something about people being _so damn gullible_ before disappearing inside her own dressing room across the hall.

Rachel sighs again, this time in sheer exhaustion and vacates the bustling area before anyone else demands her attention. She shuts the door behind her, locking it this time. It's pointless, she knows, but she can't help but check her phone to see if perhaps Finn's come to his senses in the past several minutes. He hasn't, of course, and she can't say she's surprised. The finality in his voice when he told her she needed to _think long and hard_ before making her "decision." But a decision between _what and what_ , exactly? Between a real romance or a phony one? Between love or not love? Finn or no Finn?

There is no decision as far as she's concerned, and why he's so stubbornly sticking to the notion of a life without him being better than a life with him by her side both breaks her heart and exasperates her to no end.

Her entire body feels weary as she goes about removing her makeup and changing into regular clothes. She turns her phone off as well; the incessant messages from her fathers as well as her own incessant need to check fruitlessly for any communication at all from Finn is chipping away at what's left of her sanity, and she'll...she'll figure this all out in the morning, or try to, after she's had a good cry and a good night's sleep.

By some miracle she finds the hallway mostly deserted and manages to escape out the theatre's back exit without the lecture from Artie she knows is coming. She's surprised to see quite a few fans still waiting faithfully by the door when she walks out. Secretly she'd hoped her tardiness would've caused them to disperse by now, as much as she hates to admit it. She doesn't let it be known of course, graciously obliging each and every autograph request while making her way through the sizeable crowd. One voice stands out among the sea of people already calling her name, and her eyes lift toward the familiar sound of it.

It's Kurt, Finn's immaculately dressed step-brother to whom she paid a rather awkward and ill-explained visit to that afternoon. Despite him being her self-proclaimed "biggest fan" she gathers by his expression that he didn't come here for another autograph. She acknowledges him in silence before hurriedly wrapping things up with the remaining fans. The crowd begins to disperse, security shooing everyone away for the night. "He's a friend of mine," she says to the burly guard about Kurt.

"Hello again," she greets him in a low voice, not bothering with the fake pleasantries. This isn't some meet and greet they're having. It's obvious Finn's step-brother knows _far_ more about her than he'd led her to believe that afternoon; and Kurt knows that she knows, and cuts right to the point.

"Finn's not in Paris," he admits what she already suspected.

"I know," she replies evenly.

"I'll admit it wasn't my best lie," Kurt mutters. "I mean imagine _Finn_ in Paris ordering crepes at an outdoor cafe. The boy's so tragically uncultured he wouldn't even know how to—"

"He was there this afternoon, wasn't he? At your apartment?"

Kurt purses his lips in silence for a moment, then nods. "Yes," he sighs. "How silly of me, thinking I could fool a seasoned actress such as yourself."

"No I thought your performance was quite admirable, especially for an impromptu," she assures him, her face growing serious. "But Kurt, I need you to tell me the truth this time. I finally spoke with Finn on the phone and it's like suddenly he's convinced that my dating him would ruin my career, my _life_ , and I—I can't get through to him no matter how hard I try, and I know I'm partly to blame as well, but he's just, he's _so_ stubborn, Kurt, why? Why is he doing this to me? Why is he doing this to _us_?"

"Rachel," Kurt mutters, his eyes darting around cautiously.

She takes a deep breath, his sudden wariness alerting her to the fact that they're still standing right outside the theatre, albeit the back door. There's no one around, save for a few cast and crew members making their exits, but she certainly doesn't need to be caught babbling hysterically to a "friend."

"Why don't we take a walk?" she suggests finally, Kurt nodding as together they make their way toward the mostly deserted city streets.

Kurt speaks to her in a low voice, explaining how initially he scoffed at the idea of Finn being in love with a Broadway starlet. "I'll admit I remained skeptical, even when you knocked on my door and Finn insisted that I embellish his whereabouts while he hid in the bedroom. I assumed his reluctance to see you was merely some cowardly fear of commitment on his part—although granted he _did_ look quite despondent when he showed up unexpectedly this morning. But then…" he pauses before elaborating, "But then after you left he revealed something to me that helped me understand the urgency, as well as the _validity_ of this situation."

Rachel swallows thickly, keeping a steady pace by his side. "Kurt is Finn in trouble?" she asks pointedly. She hadn't intended on being so forthright, but the eerie quality in Kurt's tone makes it impossible for her to approach this situation lightly.

"Rachel," Kurt says softly, placing a hand on her arm. They come to a halt underneath a dim streetlamp, Rachel turning to face him as her worried eyes urge him to speak. "You fell in love with a good man...but not the brightest one, I'm afraid."

Rachel exhales a deep breath, her head dropping in fatigue.

"Don't get me wrong, he's smart in all the ways that matter," Kurt continues. "Or _should_ matter, anyway. You see the thing about Finn is, he may have been your stereotypical jock back in high school, but unlike the other popular kids, he couldn't toss a slushie in my face without torturing himself about it for weeks. In fact, I'd venture to say that his own _guilt_ hurt him far more than the corn syrup hurt my eyes. Do you understand where I'm going with this?"

"I-I don't know," Rachel says, shaking her head in overwhelment. "Are you saying Finn's a good man because he used to throw slushies at people?"

"I'm hardly an apologist for high school bullying, believe me," Kurt clarifies. "I guess what I'm suggesting is, Finn was screwed either way. He can't be the perpetrator without being the victim of the world's guiltiest conscience. The thought of hurting someone hurts _him_ more. And the thought of hurting someone he loves, well...can you imagine?"

"But Finn hasn't hurt me, Kurt," she argues almost desperately. "Granted we both antagonized each other in the beginning, but the only thing that hurts me now is the idea of moving forward without him. Doesn't he know that? Did I not make that clear?"

"I'm sure you did, Rachel," he assures her. "But despite appearances, Finn's never exactly thought of himself as a prize to be won. It's understandable, given what life has dealt him in the past—pregnant girlfriend whose baby wasn't his, father who turned out to be a deadbeat instead of a hero, college recruiters rejecting him as an athlete..." Kurt trails off in sadness before continuing, "Somewhere in that thick skull of his is a desire to be special, but try reconciling that with all the self-sabotaging beliefs he holds, and, well...it's easy to see how he got a little lost along the way."

Rachel sighs, her heart aching as she envisions younger versions of Finn, his dreams dashed and deserting him one by one, his life affirming a mantra of _I'm not good enough_. But through all of that he must've held onto _some_ little glimmer of hope; she knows he did because she's seen it, and it's far more than just a glimmer, at least it is in her eyes.

Still, she's certain she knows what Kurt's driving at, about Finn getting lost along the way. Finn got lost and he found trouble; that much was made clear that day when he'd confessed his underhanded activity to her. Looking back, it's strange to think of how readily she'd given him the benefit of the doubt, dismissing the whole thing as if it were merely an isolated offense, a last resort that one would only reach for if they were being smothered by a pillow. She doesn't regret advocating for Finn's character; her instincts had told her to do so, and _still do_ tell her the exact same. The problem is, she knows others wouldn't be nearly so forgiving. Finn dabbles in a world full of antagonists, not adversaries. The people with whom he works aren't wearing girlfriend goggles when they look at him, that's for sure. Come to think of it, she'd surprised if she and Kurt weren't his only two allies in the world...then again, she _still_ doesn't know what all Kurt knows. He does strike her as the type to adhere to a rather strict moral code. And she can't help but detect a critical, almost scolding quality in his tone when he speaks of others. Would that type of person stand back and watch their step-brother collect a million dollar check from the Evans deal if they knew an illegal act had helped secure the entire thing? Would Kurt throw Finn under the bus if he found out the truth? Would _she_?

Perhaps the better question is, _should_ she, although at this point there's really no need to ask. Immoral or not, she already knows the answer, because she already knows the truth. Or at least knows _her_ truth.

There's no going back to a life without Finn, the man she loves. She needs her heart to be with him, and needs him to know that it is, always, even if he is taken away from her in handcuffs. If her celebrity becomes scandalized as a consequence, so be it. She's already been approached by Victor Vasquez, after all; perhaps Hollywood can take her in if the Broadway purists throw her out. But she'll sort all of that out later, once she's—

"Rachel?...Rachel?"

Kurt's voice crawls its way inside of her whirlwind thoughts. She snaps out of it and sees the young man's dimly-lit face staring back at her in question. "W-What?" she stutters.

His face softens in concern. "I'm sorry," he says delicately, and she realizes he'd been speaking to her throughout these past few minutes but she hadn't heard a word over her own inner dialogue. "I-I just...I assumed you already knew."

"Knew what?"

He purses his lips together and sighs. "I was hoping you caught my drift earlier...you know, about Finn getting a little lost along the way? Finn's a good man, Rachel, and in spite of this dirty little affair he's gotten himself into, he's—"

"Kurt," she interrupts quickly. "It's okay. _I_ _know_."

"You do?" he asks, searching her face for confirmation.

She nods her head in emphasis. "I've known for some time now, actually. Finn confided in me shortly after the incident occurred."

"Is that so?" Kurt asks, some bitterness tinting his voice, though not of it directed towards her. "For God's sake, that boy's never even shared his Netflix password with me," he mutters.

"Well he obviously told you as well," she offers reassuringly.

Kurt shrugs. "Yes, but not until early this morning when he showed on my doorstep, white as a ghost. I swear, I've never seen him looking so forlorn...so _desperate_. It was alarming, to say the least."

Rachel drops her eyes to ground, squeezing them shut in an attempt to evade her own memories of Finn from this morning; his eyes pleading with her from where he'd stood out in the hall, with none other than _Jesse_ standing guard at her door, as if she'd somehow appointed her cocky co-star to do so (she hadn't). Exactly how and why she'd allowed things to progress to that point is all a blur to her now, its relevance crumbling under the weight of what Kurt utters next.

"Well I suppose it's better that this relationship come to an end now, what with the Tony Awards upon us."

Her head snaps up suddenly, her eyes growing wide with confusion. " _The end?_ What end?"

Kurt shuffles a bit awkwardly on his feet before he explains, "Well surely an actress whose star was on the rise would want to disassociate herself from this situation as fast as possible. It's obvious you and my step-brother have formed a bond, but I'm sure you've considered what this relationship could do to your public image over the long term."

She's speechless as her face freezes over in shock. Although she gathers part of his reasoning comes from a fan's perspective; he's genuinely concerned for her burgeoning career, much as any fan would be. Still, she can't help but take offense to his misevaluation of her character. Granted she'd sized him up inaccurately as well, taking him for a morality cop who'd blow the whistle on his own brother if he knew the truth (something he's clearly not doing, at least not at present). But in her defense, she barely _knows_ Kurt, aside from Finn's brief introduction to her about him in the past. It's a bit disconcerting to think of her "biggest fan," one who's placed on her a pedestal in many aspects of her life, thinking so little of her integrity. Sure she's an ambitious girl, and one could say she's always been image conscious, to an extent...but leaving the man she loves in the dust in order to keep her reputation from getting a scratch on it? She's not _that_ kind of a star, certainly not. Fame at the price of true love? It'd be the worst deal she ever made.

"Kurt while your interest in my career is appreciated," she begins, "I'm afraid you may have misjudged me on one account. You see, I'm not at all concerned with my reputation when it comes to Finn. I realize there are some who believe I'd be better suited on the arm of Jesse St. James, but their input on my personal life is not only unsolicited but _irrelevant_ as far as I'm concerned." She hesitates before speaking the words on the tip of her tongue, "And I must say, you advocating for my disownment of Finn, your own step-brother, is a bit disheartening. It strikes me as somewhat of a betrayal, if I'm being quite frank."

It's not the kind of sentiment she'd typically express to a fan, but Kurt's reaction faintly resembles that of _pity_ as he stares back at her through narrowed eyes, his head cocked a bit to the side. It's almost as if she were still very much in the dark about something; that, along with Kurt's silence puts an uneasy feeling in her stomach that cause more words to come tumbling clumsily out her mouth. "B-Besides, what are the chances of Finn even getting caught, anyway? Not that I'm condoning the behavior by any means, but I certainly have no intention of turning him over to the authorities if I can help it...and I-I would hope you wouldn't either, Kurt," she adds, her voice wavering.

"Rachel," Kurt says, his voice low and serious, "He's going to turn _himself_ in."

She feels her insides plummet. "What?" she gapes, her head shaking in disbelief. "D-Do you mean he's already—"

"Not yet," Kurt tells her. "He's still hiding out at my apartment...at least as far as I know."

"Oh God," she cries, her head falling into her open palm. "But we-we've got to stop him! I know what he did was wrong, but he can't allow one lapse in judgement to ruin his entire career, everything he's worked so hard for. He doesn't deserve to have that happen to him, Kurt, you and I both know that."

"To be honest, I doubt he's all that concerned with what happens to his career," Kurt muses with a weary sigh. "In fact, I think part of him is actually _hoping_ it will all go up in flames when he turns himself in...it's sort of like a way out, you know?"

She shakes her head again, completely overwhelmed by her heightened emotions. "But that's crazy, Kurt, _that's crazy!_ Why would he want a way out of something he's worked so hard for?"

"I think his heart's already been out for quite some time," Kurt offers, keeping his voice low and steady.

"I know it has," she agrees softly, trying to calm herself. "He invited me to his old apartment one night, and he...he talked about how lost he's felt over these past few years."

"So then...you do understand?" Kurt asks gently.

" _Of course_ I do, Kurt," she emphasizes before groaning in frustration. "But for God's sake, couldn't he just put in his two week's notice or something? I mean I think turning yourself over to the authorities is a rather dramatic way of initiating a career change!"

"I'm not suggesting _that's_ the reason he's doing this, Rachel," Kurt tells her.

"Then what? What are you suggesting?"

"Do you remember what I said about Finn having a guilty conscience?" He waits for her silent nod before continuing, "Well the point I was trying to make is that this isn't just something he's choosing to do. It's something he _has_ to do...and it's also something you and I have to _let_ him do if we know what's good for him."

She doesn't know if it's her own exhaustion or Kurt's words resonating with her on some deeper level, but for one of the few times in her life, she's speechless.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you, Rachel," Kurt continues. "While his actions might appear extreme, I do believe it's the best way. The _only_ way. Otherwise he'd just go on torturing himself. He wouldn't enjoy a dime of that money knowing it came from deceit...I know it sounds convoluted, but it's really quite simple. Finn doesn't want the trophy if he has to cheat to get it. Do you see what I'm saying?"

She nods slowly, finally surrendering to the gravity of Kurt's prophetic words. "I just don't want him to get hurt," she utters, her voice nearly breaking.

"I know," Kurt nods in understanding. He places a hand on her shoulder, his eyes soft with compassion.

"But of course I...I want him to do what he feels is best," she says with as much certainty as she can manage. "You're right, Kurt. I know Finn's a good man, and I want him to know it too." She pauses, taking a deep breath to steady herself before continuing, "And if this is what he needs to do in order to clear his own conscience, then I...I have to let him do it, don't I? I have to let him go."

"I'm afraid so," Kurt says sadly. "And just so you know, I'm not one of those crazy internet fans who's shipping you with your co-star. I'm definitely rooting for you and my dear old hard-headed brother to ride off into the sunset together...and I think you will, once all this mess gets sorted out."

He slowly removes his hand from her shoulder after giving it a reassuring squeeze. She feels a bit dazed, and the only words that come to mind are, "Somewhere there's a place for us…" She's not even sure she said it out loud, but then gathers by the corresponding twinkle in Kurt's eye that he heard it too, and that he wholeheartedly agrees.

There's nothing more to be said on the matter, and both know it as they stand in heavy silence for a moment longer. Rachel can't keep her head from hanging low, feeling so utterly defeated despite the clarity Kurt's insights have helped inspire within her.

"Well it's quite late," he speaks up finally. "I know both of us need our beauty sleep, so I'll just—"

"Oh Kurt, don't be silly," she interjects, taking hold of his arm to stop him from pivoting toward the line of cabs barely visible at the end of the long dark street that they're on. "Please, let me call my driver and have him give you a lift back home," she insists, sounding more posh and privileged than she means to. She doesn't _actually_ have her own driver; the car service employed by the theater is something she's utilized only once or twice before.

"I appreciate it, Rachel, but please don't go to the trouble," he politely declines.

"Are you sure? But Kurt, it's so late."

"Nonsense. I'm a creature of the night," he assures her. "Besides, we're both going in opposite directions. There's no sense in you hauling me back to Jersey when the train would get me there faster at this hour."

Kurt's right, although she suspects his actual motive lies in keeping her at a safe distance from Finn, especially given the intense discussion they've just shared. She figures it's for the best that she not allow a car to take her straight to the quaint little apartment in Jersey at which Finn's currently hiding out. Considering the fragile state that she's in, being in such close proximity to him might draw some erratic impulses out of her that wouldn't be in either one's best interest...like throwing rocks at his window and screaming his name until he agreed to come out and talk to her face to face. That wouldn't help anything...would it?

Regardless, she surrenders to Kurt's reasoning once again, far too weary at this point to bother doing otherwise. "Alright," she says with a weak smile. "Well please do have a safe trip home, Kurt."

"You do the same, Ms. Berry," he responds, addressing her more formally now, as if he were nothing more than a devoted fan. "And please forgive me for keeping you outside for so long. This frigid night air is positively dreadful for your vocal chords."

"That's quite alright," she assures him, unable to keep her poorly concealed emotions at bay. Her voice is shakier and more vulnerable when she adds, "And th-thank you for coming here tonight...and please, tell Finn that I…"

"I will, Rachel," Kurt says with sincerity, anticipating her next words.

The two share a nod in understanding, sadness lingering in the air around them as Kurt turns in the opposite direction, his small frame practically vanishing into the night. Now alone, Rachel releases a shuddering breath as she pulls her coat tighter around her shoulders. Exhausted on every level of her being, she barely hears the faint rustling of leaves and heavy breathing lurking in the shadows right beside her.

"Having a rough night?" an eerily familiar voice asks.

* * *

 **To Be Continued...**


	11. New York City is Insidious

**Hello friends. Hope everyone's doing well. As always, thanks for hanging in there with me...xoxo**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own.**

* * *

"Having a rough night?" an eerily familiar voice asks her.

She nearly jumps out of her skin, the pale, predatory face startling her more than ever when it appears suddenly out of the darkness. "Jacob," she gasps, her hands frantically groping inside her pockets for the can of mace she clearly forgot at home. Luckily she stops herself from going into full karate-kick mode, the gossip monger's camera poised and ready to capture her own version of the Britney Spears umbrella incident.

"You should relax," he suggests uncaringly. "You seem a little stressed...boyfriend troubles?"

"I have nothing to say to you," she responds, stepping around the human barrier she's been confronted by and continuing on her way back toward the theatre. As rattled as she is, she's beyond caring what unflattering photos are sure to hit the blogosphere by morning, all of them depicting Kurt as her new "mystery man."

"Oh don't worry, Rachel. You've already said _more_ than enough."

His creepy, insinuating tone irks her even more than usual. As indifferent as she is towards whatever harmless tabloid fodder Jacob's managed to capture with his insidious lense, her skin crawls when she thinks of all the things his own _ears_ may have overheard.

Her footsteps have already slowed to a stop, her body pivoting to look at the pale-faced figure grinning salaciously back at her. "What do you have on me, Jacob?" she asks through gritted teeth.

"Oh, just a few little interesting tidbits," he teases.

She stiffens again. She's not threatened by this person, not in a physical sense, but the amount of power he holds over her is really quite sickening. "Such as?" she asks coolly, her arms folded.

"And what if I tell you, huh? What'll you give me?"

"Not a thing," she replies, shuddering at his implications. "Besides, I'm certain you'll only falsify and exaggerate whatever it is you _think_ you heard."

"Stories like this don't require much embellishment. They sell themselves."

"Well, I happen to know that gossip mongers like yourself aren't immune to being sued for libel," she says confidently. "You can use my love life as click bait for your deplorable website if you wish, but I'd refrain from making false, damaging assumptions about things you know nothing about."

"You've got me all wrong, Rachel. You see, I could've thrown you and your new boy-toy under the bus already if I wanted to." He's practically foaming at the mouth now as he adds, "Especially since I've got _multiple_ sources to back the story."

Her stomach drops, but she steels herself against it, trying to appear as outwardly composed as possible. "And what _sources_ would those be?" she asks, secretly fearful of what he might say.

"That's not something I'd typically reveal, but I have one guy whose name rhymes with 'stick' willing to go on record about what a scumbag Finn Hudson is. There's also a girl—Birdie or Kitty I think her name is—who seems quite eager to express the same sentiment about the _both_ of you."

Her mind races back, vaguely recalling the mullet-head from the gym whose vendetta against Finn was obvious to anyone nearby. And then there's Kitty, the volatile aerobics instructor with a chip on her shoulder as well. "They know _nothing_ ," she assures him, almost laughing in triumph. It's clear Jacob's knows something she wishes he didn't, but she's hardly concerned about some trash-talking oaf with a mullet or an embittered woman named _Kitty_ doing any serious damage to her or Finn.

"Maybe they don't," Jacob says confidently. "But you can rest assured there's no shortage of people willing to vouch for your boyfriend's unsavory character."

"I'm sure the same could be said of any other celebrity whose reputation you've sought to tarnish," she argues stubbornly. "It isn't uncommon for leeches to come out of the woodwork once someone's achieved a bit of success. My Finn is no exception to that, however, it doesn't make your alleged 'sources' any more reliable."

The look he gives her makes her blood run cold. "It does when I have audio of you and your friend 'Kurt' confirming everything," he reveals, holding up a tape recorder.

It's a one-two punch he's just dealt her; she takes it in stride, breathing deeply until gradually her heartbeat slows in solemn relinquishment. "Tell me what you know," she says resolutely, breaking the charged silence. She has to swallow the bile in her throat before continuing, "And then tell me what it will take for you to not run the story."

"I heard everything, Rachel," Jacob admits, his tone oddly lacking in spite or vindication. Surprisingly, the admission appears to have weakened his villainous facade, his eyes softening in empathy, even _remorse_. Perhaps he'd enjoyed the power struggle more so than the victory itself. She doesn't let it faze her, though, knowing his intentions remain the same.

"Such as?" she asks him.

He shrugs. "Bribery, lies, dirty money, Sam Evans... _jail_."

He looks as if he could go on, rattling off keywords that tell the gist of one damaging story. But Rachel's heard enough, resolve in her face as she quietly nods her head. "Well, I'll assume you have every intention of exploiting this story you've stumbled upon."

Again, he just shrugs in admission.

"And I'll also assume that _you yourself_ are not above an act of bribery. So let me repeat myself—what will it take for you to kill this story altogether?" Before Jacob's even opened his mouth to speak, she's quick to clarify, "And don't think for a _second_ that I'm offering anything of a sexual nature."

He deflates slightly in disappointment, however he does appear to have had something entirely different in mind. "Well there's really only _one thing_ that might persuade me," he hints, clearly taking delight in the position he has her in.

"And that is?" she asks impatiently.

"Go to the Tony's with Jesse St. James."

Her brow furrows. She'd been expecting a more outlandish request, like that she jump over the Empire State Building or procure The Hope Diamond by sunup. "You want me to attend the Tony Awards with my co-star?"

"Your co-star who's also your _fiance_ ," Jacob corrects.

"What? But Jesse and I aren't even _dating_ ," she argues redundantly, knowing that's the whole point.

He grins connivingly. "You want this tape destroyed?"

Her eyes fall shut as she exhales deeply. She wishes she were on an island somewhere with Finn, free of this entanglement. "I just—I don't understand," she says after a moment. "What would a fake engagement to Jesse do for you? Surely it's a far less tantalizing headline than the scandal you're threatening to blow wide open."

"Believe it or not, Rachel, I don't want to ruin you," he admits. "All I want is a good story, and believe it or not, co-star romances make for even juicier click-bait than scandals nowadays."

She remembers her God awful coffee date with Jesse; he'd mentioned something about "St. Berry shippers"—whatever _that_ means. She purses her lips. "And what are you going to do when this fake romance comes to its inevitable fake end? Concoct _another_ story about me cheating on Jesse with Finn?"

The look in his eyes confirms she's spot on with that prediction. She may as well be writing the story all by herself. "Alright," she sighs. "I'll attend the awards with Jesse as my date. I'd much rather go with the man I love, but I'll go with a man I _don't_ love if it will protect Finn's name."

Her heart sinks as she envisions her name being called for Best Actress. From the moment she'd learned of her nomination she'd dreamed of Finn being there, pride in his eyes as he hugged her tight. The dream dies a little as those eyes become clouded with envy and secret contempt, Jesse glowering at her from the audience as she accepts her award. She sighs again.

"Excellent," Jacob says with an excited grin.

"But I'll need you to give me that tape," she demands, holding out her hand.

He withholds it from her, shaking his head. "I want an exclusive interview with the both of you announcing your engagement." He watches her mouth fall agape, then adds, "And a romantic photo-op in Cabo."

" _Cabo?_ You have _got_ to be kidding."

"Fine, make it Jersey Shore. As long as I get some good shots of you two on a beach... _and_ I want a steamy make-out session in the water."

She scowls in disgust. "Could you be any more perverse?"

"See, that's the thing," he argues. "You think _I'm_ the perv in this scenario—but I'm not."

"Oh no? Well, I'd beg to differ."

He shrugs. "I'm just giving my _readers_ what I know they want. See what I mean?"

She gets his point, but scoffs at his trying to pass himself off as innocent. "And if I do meet all of your insane demands...can you promise not to post anything damaging about _Finn Hudson_ , the man I'm _actually_ in love with?"

That villainous smirk makes its appearance once again. "As long as you do what I ask, Rachel," he says, waving his tape recorder in her face like bait, "Then I'm your best friend. In fact, you can even count on me for positive press in the future...once the scandal of your break-up with Jesse subsides, of course."

She grimaces but doesn't protest; she'll worry about all of that later. "Fine," she sighs. "And I suppose it goes without saying that not even Jesse _himself_ has agreed to be my faux fiance. If we're going to proceed with this, I'm going to need some time to, uhm, _propose_ the whole idea to him."

She's already cringing at the thought, although she imagines Jesse will be more than happy to go along with the whole scheme. He's practically been pushing for this since the moment they became co-stars.

"Sure, I can give you a day," Jacob says charitably.

"How generous of you," she mutters.

She actually shakes his clammy hand to seal the deal, the action instilling her with not a single ounce of faith that he won't have thrown her and Finn under the bus by the time she awakens that morning (assuming she ever gets to sleep).

* * *

She does get to sleep eventually but it does little to revive her spirits. The first thing she does is check her phone, hoping against all odds that Finn's texted her; he hasn't, and she stares longingly at the screen while the minutes tick by, a portrait of a girl who's just woken up in bed alone.

If she were in a more whimsical mood, she might actually chuckle at the cast of characters who actually _have_ been blowing up her phone all morning. There's her fathers, of course. She'll deal with them later. There's Santana, badgering her about the movie role. She'll deal with her later. There's Victor Vasquez's secretary, informing her that Mr. Vasquez would like to schedule a Skype session with her within the coming days. She'll deal with him later. There's her director, Artie, who wants to meet with her in private before tonight's show. She deal with him later. And, finally, there's Jacob Israel, reminding her of what they discussed last night (as if she could forget).

She responds to Jacob first, and _has to_ , knowing it's imperative that she maintain a decent enough rapport with him, considering what he has on her (and Finn). As much as she hates being blackmailed by some sleazebag from the media, she knows it's better than the alternative. First, though, she has to find out if Jesse is even on board with the whole thing. She fires off a text to Jacob, sounding far more confident than she actually is as she assures him she'll speak with Jesse on the matter immediately, and that there shouldn't be any problems.

Thankfully, she's right.

"So, when's the wedding?" Jesse asks, his calculating smirk confirming this is _exactly_ what he hoped was her motive for calling him into her dressing room that evening. After all, he's basically been campaigning to be her fake fiance since the moment they met.

"There isn't going to be any wedding, it's just a PR stunt."

"Right, but people are going to ask questions, and you're going to want to have your default answers ready," Jesse explains. "How did I propose? Was it love at first sight? Did you always dream of a spring wedding?"

"I don't know, I've never planned a fake wedding before," she shakes her head in exasperation. "And we can tell them anything as far as I'm concerned. It's not as if any of this is coming from the heart."

His intrigued smirk remains in tact. "Well Rachel, I must say, it's about time. From the moment we met, I felt that you and I were PR soulmates. Looks like I wasn't the only one."

She can only grimace in reply. And with that, her co-star becomes her co-conspirator. Jacob is of course delighted to learn of Jesse's eagerness to comply; perhaps not more so, however, than Artie Abrams. Understandably, last night's shaky performance had not gone unnoticed by the astute, bespectacled eyes of her director, and she prepares herself for a firm scolding as she enters his tiny office. He does scold her at first, and then come the questions.

"Is anything wrong, Rachel?" he asks.

She lifts her head to look at him. She'd been sitting silently, nodding in resignation while he denounced the unacceptably low caliber performance given by her, a Tony nominated actress, the night before. With that out of the way, however, he appears genuinely concerned for her current emotional state. "I'm fine, Artie," she says automatically.

"You're sure?" he presses. "I don't mean to pry into your personal affairs, but as your director I can't help but feel _somewhat_ entitled to know if there's anything—"

"It's Jesse," she blurts out, the words practically cannonballing off her tongue without her permission.

Artie nods knowingly, irritation possessing him. "Now Rachel, I know you and Jesse aren't exactly soulmates in real life and I don't expect you to be. However, as an actress it is in imperative that you not allow those off-stage tensions to impact your—"

"There's no tension," she assures him. "In fact, there's something I've been meaning to tell you, Artie, and that is that Jesse and I, we...we're engaged!"

She gathers by Artie's baffled expression that her eyes aren't exactly sparkling with adoration for the man she just declared her future husband. She scrambles to remedy that, plastering on a smile that feels ill-fitted to her own face.

Artie shakes his head. "Wait, so...you and Jesse are getting _married?_ "

"That's right," she nods.

"But I...I didn't even know you two were dating."

"We are! Or, we _were_ , before he proposed. The romance blossomed rather suddenly, which surprised me at first—but you know what they say about love and hate being two sides of the same coin." Artie looks unconvinced, so she elaborates, "Of course, the inevitable media attention has been weighing quite heavily on my mind, and I...well, I suppose that was the source of my _inexcusably_ scatterbrained performance last night."

She shuts her mouth finally, feeling absurd. She's not even wearing a _ring_. Fortunately, a light bulb appears of have gone on inside Artie's head, his eyes swirling almost hypnotically at the revelation. "Media attention…" he mutters to himself.

"Artie?" she questions, slightly creeped out.

He snaps out of it, a smile on his face. "This is _brilliant_ , Rachel. Absolutely brilliant. I mean congratulations to you both of course, but—my god, just think of what the added publicity will do for the show!"

Rachel is taken aback. She hadn't thought of their already-acclaimed Broadway production as needing any "added" publicity; especially not that of a tabloid nature. "Well I would hate to see that type of media buzz detract from the show's accomplishments. In fact, Jesse and I have considered keeping our romance private until _after_ the Tony Awards." That last part she adds redundantly, knowing neither Jacob _or_ Jesse would stand for it.

"Are you kidding, Rachel?" Artie gapes. "You and Jesse _must_ attend the awards as a couple. It's perfect! You'll be the toast of the entire show! And, subsequently, so will _A Different Kind of Blue_."

Artie must be envisioning some kind of trickle-down theory where publicity is concerned; and perhaps it will in fact lea d to further acclaim for himself (after all, he _did_ direct her and Jesse in the very production that allowed their "romance" to blossom). Still, Rachel had assumed this manner of calling attention to oneself by default would be beneath him.

Apparently not, as Artie's eyes continue to shine bright as flashbulbs, his face practically giddy. "By the way, when's the wedding?" he asks.

"Oh, well we haven't set a date yet. However, I've always dreamed of being a winter bride," she lies, simply choosing the season that's farthest off.

Artie's expression falls slightly; clearly he'd hoped the wedding would take place before Rachel's contract ended. His eyes are still wide as he revels in the possibilities to come.

Rachel's disgusted; disgusted with herself for agreeing to this whole thing, although she'd likely do it again in a heartbeat if it meant protecting Finn.

"So, Jesse must've really swept you off your feet, huh?" Artie asks.

"What? Oh...uh, yeah. Yes, he certainly did." The affirmation of it causes her fake smile to reconfigure itself into something resembling a cringe. Artie, however, doesn't seem to notice. Funny how he's so observant of her as an actress and yet her blatant insincerity as she speaks of her affection for Jesse flies straight over his head. People see what they want to see, she figures; especially in showbiz.

"Well I must say, I'm glad you settled on him," Artie continues. "That man-giant with the fish name was utterly unsuited to you, if you don't mind my saying."

Her jaw tightens. Yes, she _does_ mind, as a matter of fact, but she can't let Artie know that. "Yes, well. I'm glad you approve of the choice I've made."

She excuses herself then, knowing showtime is less than an hour away. Her initial plan had been to call Kurt and explain the entanglement she's in. Kurt would then explain it to his step-brother, of course; although she'd prefer to speak to Finn herself, she's uncertain of whether or not he'd engage with her at this time, given the "space" he insisted she take for herself.

She's literally reaching for her phone when it occurs to her that Finn may very well have _already_ turned himself in. After all, Kurt hadn't intimated anything to her as far as when, where, or _how_ Finn planned to go about this. Just then, the wardrobe department whisks her away before she can find out anything, or explain anything to anybody.

As showtime draws near, she notices certain cast and crew members giving her strange looks. A few of them even stop to congratulate her. All of it makes sense later, when she learns that Jacob had _already_ broken the news of her and Jesse's engagement. By the time she'd taken the stage that evening, multiple media outlets had picked up on the story as well.

The sickeningly sweet kiss he plants on her lips as photographers swarm them backstage nearly makes her expose the whole facade immediately. But from thereon she grits her teeth and plays along to the best of her ability; after all, _she_ got Jesse into this in the first place.

"Yes, we're very happy, thank you," she answers another probing question with a smile. "No, the wedding date is still to be determined...The ring? Oh, well, naturally the costume department had me remove it before tonight's performance."

"It's quite a rock, though," Jesse adds. "You should see it."

She almost cringes. She thinks _she_ should probably see it—the ring—as well if they intend to move forward with this whole charade.

The media disperses eventually, despite their insatiable interest in the matter. Rachel quickly retires to her dressing room, feeling the curious eyes of her cast and crew mates following her every step of the way. She suspects all of them can see through this little stunt they're pulling—particularly Mercedes, whose glare she can feel slicing through the door even after she closes it. Jesse follows her inside, to keep up appearances. Now alone, they look at each other in silence; to her surprise, he merely offers her a small shrug, as if round one had been successfully endured by the both of them.

"Well I guess we need to get you a ring," he says softly.

"Yes," she agrees with a sigh. "I'll take care of it."

He nods. Then, making no attempt to test the boundaries of their new arrangement, he exits her dressing room. Immediately she grabs for her phone, ignoring the almost comically irate texts from her fathers, both of them continuing to badger her until she explains herself; she'll deal with them later, however, and quickly pulls up Kurt's contact. Much to her elation, he'd texted her his number earlier that day, opening up an avenue of communication between her and Finn. She can only hope that Finn _himself_ had been the one to suggest it, but she didn't ask any questions.

Kurt answers right away, and she gathers by his tone that he is _in fact_ a very loyal reader of Jacob Israel's blog.

She scrambles to explain. "Kurt, I—it's not—we aren't really—"

"I know," he says understandingly.

She exhales. "He blackmailed me, Kurt. Jacob overheard our entire conversation and he—"

" _I know_ ," Kurt repeats with emphasis. "I put the pieces together immediately, Rachel. You don't even need to explain...and you should probably keep your voice down in case anyone's eavesdropping on _this_ conversation."

He's right.

"What about Finn?" she asks in a lower voice.

"He knows. He gets it."

"And has he—"

"No," Kurt answers, anticipating her words. He then adds, "Not yet."

She can tell that's all he'll disclose for now, their brief exchange coming to an end shortly after. She sighs; well, at least Kurt had assured her that Finn "gets it." The notion does little to dull her aching heart as she envisions him scrolling through images of her smiling alongside Jesse, the media gushing in approval of their headline-grabbing union. She thinks Finn will be able to read the hidden longing in her eyes better than anyone else ever could; she just needs him to know unequivocally that it's a longing for _him_.

She begins removing her stage makeup, her motions feeling labored and heavy. A text comes through from Jacob.

 **Comment section blowing up. Need to see a ring on your finger ASAP!**

She rolls her eyes. This PR stunt certainly didn't come with its own accessory kit. Apparently she's required to produce a diamond ring at the drop of a hat, with no assistance whatsoever from anyone, not even her fake fiance. Well, it figures. After all, a marriage proposal that _never took place_ would naturally come with a ring that _doesn't exist._

She does have options at her disposal, one of them being the ring she inherited from her Aunt Edna. But the thought of using a family heirloom as a prop in this little scheme makes her shudder in disgust. She's quite certain her dearly departed Aunt would not approve. No, if she wants to keep her ancestors from frowning down upon her she'll have to involve another innocent party in this.

She knocks on the closed door, relieved to find the hallway mostly deserted by now. The woman who answers is Viola, wardrobe supervisor for _A Different Kind of Blue_. Her expression as she looks back at Rachel is shrewd, yet free of judgement.

"It's a stunt, isn't it?" Viola asks after inviting her inside the small, cluttered room.

Rachel nods wearily, her shoulders slumping.

"Well, I'd like to help you out, kiddo, but I don't have any white dresses on hand at the moment."

"I don't need a wedding dress," Rachel says. "It won't get that far."

"Ah, of course," the woman nods knowingly. She'd been around a while, and had seen things like this play out before. But despite being wise to the trickery of show business, she herself had no interest in whistleblowing or petty gossip. Rachel knew that when she knocked on her door.

"I just need a ring," Rachel states, cutting right to the point.

"Is that all?" Viola smirks with a raised brow.

"I'd _greatly_ appreciate it, Viola," Rachel insists a bit desperately. "I'm sort of in a bind, and I can't—"

"I'll pull some strings," Viola says bluntly. "It'll have to wait until tomorrow, though. Not many diamond rings lying around here."

"Oh, of course. Thank you, thank you _so much_." Despite her gratitude she remains ill at ease as she thinks of how her still-ringless finger will appear to the photographers waiting outside the theatre. Will Jacob see it as an act of defiance on her part?

Viola, seeming to sense the younger woman's predicament, merely shrugs the whole thing off. "It's a cold night. You'll wear gloves. Don't sweat it."

Rachel nods, her face brightening in appreciation for the woman's pragmatic approach. As expected, she asks no follow-up questions, and Rachel is free to exit the room after thanking her once again.

She texts Jacob right away, knowing he's probably waiting outside with the others.

 **No ring tonight. Will have it by tomorrow...PROMISE.**

Jesse is waiting for her by the back door. Once again, she's surprised by his lack of smugness, his tactics more businesslike than anything as he solemnly, _dutifully_ offers her his hand. She takes it and the two of them exit the theatre as a happily engaged couple, the flashbulbs blinding, the questions prodding, none of it real.

* * *

Viola might as well be Rachel's very own Olivia Pope from Scandal. The woman stays true to her word, a nondescript package arriving at Rachel's door first thing in the morning. Inside is a fourteen carat white gold ring, a stunning prop worn by a great many daytime TV actresses over the years. It's modest enough, and not excessively gaudy, which she's grateful for. She's certainly not looking to out-bling the Kardashians in this scenario; she'll save that for the real deal.

After placing the ring on her own finger—eh, diamonds aren't a bad look for her—she takes a quick photo to send to Jacob. He's glad to see the ring, but then informs her of a new thread of comments speculating as to why her and Jesse have yet to share an off-stage kiss. "It's been twelve hours since the story broke!" she argues, baffled by this side of humanity.

Ah yes, but the shippers won't wait. They need to see some legitimate tongue action, pronto!

Fine, she agrees with a sigh. She'll make it happen. And she does, pressing her lips against Jesse's that night during the curtain call. She does it with some defiance, knowing there's no photos allowed inside the theatre. It was barely a kiss anyway, more like a peck, the kind you'd greet your Aunt Martha with. Jacob won't let her pass with that of course, and so she stages a more tantalizing moment later outside the theatre, pulling Jesse in for a lip-lock as the cameras flash wildly. It's hardly a back-bending, "kissing the the war goodbye" display of affection, but it's enough, and she feels the unarousing taste of it on her lips as the town car pulls away from the hyperactive scene.

"You know, sooner or later the photographers are going to start following us home," Jesse says, breaking the tense silence they'd been riding in. "They're going to wonder why we're both getting dropped off at separate buildings."

They're seated on opposite ends of the backseat, Rachel on the farthest end it's possible to sit on without being outside the car entirely. She looks over at him. "I don't foresee that being an issue," she says solemnly.

He looks contemplative, then nods, seeming to agree with her implication. They won't be "together" long enough for those types of speculations to arise. Neither say anything else, Jesse barely muttering a goodnight when the car arrives at the building where he lives.

Thankfully, the driver asks no questions.

* * *

Their "engagement photoshoot" is easily the most awkward scenario of her life. She tries to tell herself she's only acting; and she is, except it's a little different when something's supposed to look real.

It's like she's a cardboard cut-out, propped up next to Jesse, and him next to her. She's certain they both look ridiculous; more like caricatures than lovebirds, but, well, they probably aren't the first, not in show business, anyway.

People will undoubtedly look at these photos in hindsight and say, "I knew they wouldn't last." Well, they're already right.

The accompanying interview quotes her as gushing over the proposal that never happened, as well as the wedding that's never going to happen. Fortunately the words are in print, so people can't see the unmoved expression on her face, or hear her monotonous tone of voice when she speaks them. It's just as well, considering she barely says the words at all. They're just the template responses she gives to the generic questions she's asked; she leaves it to Jacob to plug them all into the story accordingly.

The theatre decides to throw them an engagement party. Rachel is mortified upon hearing the news. The last thing she wants to do is stand around toasting champagne and showing off her rock like some blissful bride-to-be. She argues that they should at least make it some kind charity event instead, but her voice goes unheard, and it seems the invitations have already been sent out anyhow. The whole thing is thrown together quickly, and with no input whatsoever from her. It's not hard to figure why; with the Tony's just a week away, the production is eager to shine a spotlight on its most buzz-worthy commodity. By now she feels like a pawn in quite a number of people's games; Jesse is too, although his lack of principals to begin with allow him to adapt more easily in a scenario like this.

The party turns out to be a full-blown media affair, with plenty of press people in attendance (Jacob included, of course, that's why she couldn't have gotten out of this if she'd tried). It's a posh, sophisticated event, held at the only ballroom in midtown that could be booked on such short notice.

She stands beside Jesse, feeling as though she were a mannequin on display. Her smile is gracious, yet literally plastered on as she accepts praise and well-wishes from a multitude of guests, many of whom she's never met in her life. A few of them give her shrewd, suspecting looks as they pass by, clearly seeing right through the whole charade. There must be something in her face that gives her away, and she works to reconfigure her expression so as appear more genuine, but there's only so much she can do.

Jesse, on the other hand, seems to be treating this whole thing like an acting exercise. He's completely in his element as he interacts with the media, and it more than compensates for Rachel's more muted demeanor. She'll have to thank him for it later, even though she suspects his motives are mostly self-serving.

He falls silent, however, when the focus on their engagement inevitably shifts toward Rachel's future career plans. Apparently it's widely known that her contract with A Different Kind of Blue ends shortly, and with a possible Tony Award to place on her mantle at home, the most pressing issue on everyone's mind seems to be, what's next for Rachel Berry?

"I'm sure a gifted actress like yourself won't be satisfied with just one measly little Tony Award," one journalist says, clearly trying to ingratiate himself with her. "You must have your sights set on the Oscars, the Golden Globes—perhaps even the Grammys?"

"Oh, well I don't know," Rachel responds modestly. "The theatre has been very good to me, and I have no intention of leaving it in the dust if that's what you're implying."

That last part she adds rather bitingly. The Tony's have been her dream since preschool; she holds them in the highest regard, despite some journalists wanting to belittle their prestige. Besides, she hasn't even won the damn award yet!

She can feel Jesse's annoyance radiating off of him as Rachel's career prospects continue to be the main event. It's clear the media sees him as her accessory, with questions like, "Will you accompany Miss Berry out to Hollywood if she chose to relocate?" proving exactly that.

"Of course, why do you think I proposed in the first place?" Jesse answers, although the tension in his voice is obvious, at least to Rachel. She knows his patience is wearing thin; hers is too, honestly, and while she understands Jesse feeling slighted, she's sick and tired of him resenting her. She's never done anything maliciously to sabotage him; they're co-stars, yes, but his ego isn't something she ever agreed to be a caretaker of.

"Yes, if there's one thing I can count on, it's the unwavering support of my dear fiance," she insists, the words offending her own ears. She's had enough, and is just seconds away from fleeing the scene like a fake runaway bride when she suddenly feels a strong feminine presence arrive at her side.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I'm gonna need to borrow my girl Berry for a just a minute if you don't mind."

The group of journalists is stunned silent, the intimidating woman having that effect on them. Rachel tries to appear unfazed as she pivots toward Santana, immediately deciding to play along with whatever the calculating Latina has up her sleeve.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but how do you know Ms. Berry?" one journalist asks Santana, his eyes wide with intrigue. The others are at full attention as well, clearly jumping to their own conclusions about the full-figured mystery woman.

"She's my wedding planner!" Rachel speaks up, not trusting whatever embellishment Santana was about to provide.

"Your wedding planner?" a different journalist questions, sounding disappointed. Clearly he'd hoped a more tantalizing plot twist was about to unfold.

"Yes, that's right," Rachel confirms. "Ladies and gentlemen, meet the lovely Ms. Santana Lopez."

Her eyes flick over to Jesse, surprised by the obvious paranoia and discomfort Santana's presence appears to have sparked within him. If Rachel didn't know better (and she doesn't) she would swear he recognized the fiery Latina woman from somewhere. With several sets of eyes on him, however, he has no choice but to play along. "Yes, Ms. Lopez is a dear friend of ours," he claims, clearly trying to gain the upper hand.

"Oh yes, well of course Jesse and I make all of our wedding decisions together," Rachel clarifies, stubbornly unwilling to relinquish complete control. "We are a partnership of equals, after all."

"Of course we are, dear," Jesse smiles through gritted teeth, "I was just wanting to emphasize that it was I who—"

"Aw look at these two, already squabbling like an old married couple," Santana interjects, clearly sensing this entire facade is just seconds away from imploding on itself. "It's adorable, isn't it?"

The onlookers are slow to agree, but do, despite the obvious tension between the "happy couple."

"Now if you don't mind, I have an extremely girly wedding matter to discuss with the bride-to-be," Santana continues, taking hold of Rachel's elbow before glancing over at Jesse. "Trust me, hubs, you wouldn't be interested."

"Is it about those centerpieces again?" Jesse asks, going along with it despite the chip on his shoulder.

"Yes," Rachel and Santana both answer in unison. Rachel forces a light-hearted chuckle.

"Rachel, honey, you go ahead and pick whichever centerpieces you like," Jesse tells her, his tone sickeningly sweet. "You know I want more than anything for this to be the wedding of your dreams."

This evokes a murmured "aww" from the peanut gallery. Rachel swallows the bile in her throat, then replies, "Thanks, babe, you're the best. You sure you'll be okay out here all by yourself?"

"Oh, don't you worry about me," he assures her. "I'm sure I'll have no trouble entertaining our guests while you're gone."

A look of uneasiness remains frozen on her face as Santana practically drags her away from the scene. Thankfully, the Latina's aggressive demeanor keeps others at a safe distance as Rachel follows her through the ballroom and into the lobby area. There's an old fashioned coat-check room that isn't being used, and Santana flips the light on before pulling Rachel inside.

"So, do I get to be one of your bridesmaids now or what?" Santana asks with a smirk.

Rachel rolls her eyes. Despite her annoyance, she can't help but be grateful to this woman for removing her from that suffocating situation out there. "Alright, let's just cut right to it," Rachel says directly. "What do you want?"

"A wedding invite, obviously," Santana continues to be a tease, her shrewd eyes narrowing in on Rachel. "I sure would hate to miss it. Especially if it's going to be as good of a shit-show as the one you've put on here tonight."

"Nice language," Rachel cringes.

"Oh relax, there's no journalists around, you can drop the act."

Rachel opens her mouth to retort, but instead just sighs defeatedly. She knows she's hardly fooling anyone anyway, least of all the sharp-witted woman staring back at her. "You know?" she asks wearily.

Santana chuckles cynically. "Not your best performance, Berry. I've seen awkward Prom dates with more spark than you and your hubby-to-be. Oh, and nice engagement spread on Jacob Israel's blog—that was a real doozy! On the bright side, you should be able to use those same photos later when you announce your bitter divorce."

"Alright, so you caught me!" Rachel exclaims, throwing up her hands. "Apparently I'm not as good of an actress as you thought. There, are you happy now?"

"You are incredibly talented, Rachel," Santana insists, her countenance softening. "And I'm sure the reason you look like someone's holding a gun to your head is because someone probably is."

"Pretty much," Rachel sighs bitterly. "There's no gun—not literally. But you can bet I wouldn't be doing any of this if I wasn't being viciously blackmailed."

"It's the Jew fro, isn't it?" Santana asks.

"Yeah, I'm in love with him," Rachel jokes, lightening the mood. "Is it that obvious?"

"God, don't give me night terrors," Santana shudders. "Well I'd be happy to meet him in an alley somewhere and go all West Harlem on his pasty ass. That ought to take care of your problem."

Rachel can't help but chuckle. Now that she thinks about it, having a friend like Santana might not be half bad. "Well thanks, but it's probably too late to bother. I'm stuck playing house with Jesse until we're allowed to break up."

"Have you set a date yet?" Santana asks.

"For the wedding?"

"No, for the break up. How much longer do you have to keep this little horror show going?"

"That's undetermined," Rachel groans. "Hopefully sooner rather than later."

"Damn," Santana shakes her head. "Jew Fro must really have something on you."

Rachel barely nods, her mind wandering. Santana looks contemplative as well, her thoughts more of the scheming nature, as usual. "Well, there's got to be a way to turn the tables on him. I mean, why should you let some creepy low-grade blogger treat you as his puppet when you could simply beat him at his own game?"

Rachel snaps back to reality, the perplexity of her current surroundings causing her guard to draw up slightly. Despite the Latina appearing to be on her side, she's certain there must be an ulterior motive at the root of it. "I'm sorry," Rachel begins with a chuckle, "but I have to ask, why exactly are you invested in any of this?"

"Because I think it's insane what you're doing," Santana states without hesitation. "Not to mention stupid as all hell."

Rachel flinches slightly, offended, but not at all surprised by the Latina's characteristic bluntness. She shakes her head adamantly, however, determined to stand her ground. "No...no, I'm sorry, Santana, but this matter is not your business. And while I appreciate your concern—regardless of what your motives may be—I'm afraid I won't discuss this with you any further."

"Putting your entire career on the line to protect Finn?" Santana fires back immediately, Rachel's affirmative words not deterring her in the least. "I thought you had ambition, Berry! Who knew you'd stoop to this level? Frankly, I'm disappointed."

Rachel can feel the smoke practically shooting out of her ears, so outraged by the audacity of this woman that she can barely formulate a response, let alone a dignified one. "Okay, first of all," she finally hisses through gritted teeth, "You need to lower your voice."

"Yeah, I guess you learned that the hard way, huh?" Santana smirks.

"What in the world is your problem, anyway?" Rachel shoots back, completely baffled by this scenario she's found herself in. "You're disappointed in me? Well, you'll have to excuse me, but I didn't realize I was on trial before a one-woman jury named Santana. I don't even know how you got in here tonight! I didn't make the guest list, but it baffles me how a person like you got invited to a dignified gathering such as this."

That was harsh, and Rachel regrets the words as soon as they're out of her mouth. Somehow the fiery Latina never fails to evoke these kind of acid-tongued statements from her, with Rachel constantly feeling like she's unjustly under attack for one reason or another.

"Well," Santana begins, her tone equally as cold and vindictive, "Then I guess it's a good thing you didn't make the guest list to your own phony ass engagement party, huh, Berry? How very dignified of you to not even give a shit who showed up to witness this little circus act of yours."

Rachel holds the Latina's steely, challenging gaze for several heated moments before finally breaking down completely. She groans in frustration. "Of course I know this isn't dignified," she says miserably. "The whole thing is a circus act, like you said. I readily admit that! There, are you happy now?"

Santana just purses her lips and shrugs, appearing only mildly triumphant.

"But I'd do it again if I had to," Rachel states with conviction, confidence repossessing her as she stares across the room at the other woman.

"Yeah, I know you would, 'cause you're a moron," Santana replies.

"Well maybe I am," Rachel admits.

"Yeah, but that's the thing, Berry," Santana sighs, "You're not. You're a smart, talented woman who shouldn't have to stoop this low to protect her man."

"And what was I supposed to do, huh? Just throw him under the bus?"

Santana shrugs. "Finn made his own bed, as far as I'm concerned. You should let him lay in it instead of putting your own goddamn integrity on the line."

"Well if you haven't noticed, it's a bit late for that now," Rachel scoffs. "But thank you again for your unsolicited meddling in my personal life. Always much appreciated."

"You know I'm right, don't you?" Santana interrogates, unfazed by Rachel's sarcasm.

Rachel's jaw tenses. If she weren't literally stalling for time, she'd simply remove herself from this heated encounter, and then call security; she doesn't, though, and only because playing verbal tennis with an uninvited guest is somehow infinitely more appealing than what's waiting for her outside the tiny little room that they're in.

"I've already acknowledged that this whole charade with Jesse is every bit as deplorable as you're suggesting," Rachel states pointedly. "But when I said I'd do it again in a heartbeat, I meant that as well."

Santana shakes her head. "You're a damn fool, Berry," she muses with a sigh. But as Rachel opens her mouth to protest, she adds, "I can relate."

Rachel flinches in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Santana sighs, her bold, brazen nature seemingly on hold for the time being as she leans back against the wall. "I made a sex tape with my girlfriend once," she begins in a weary tone of voice. "This creepy guy whose apartment I was renting at the time hacked into my laptop and stole the tape. He threatened to put it online, of course, and while I wasn't too concerned about my own reputation at that point, my girl Brittany was applying to colleges, and I...I couldn't let some scumbag ruin her like that. Anyway, the guy said he'd only destroy the tape if I slept with him...for an entire year." She shrugs bitterly, then adds, "So I did."

Rachel's stunned silent, the scenario Santana just described making her flesh creep, as well as her heart sink in sadness. Here's a woman who literally compromised her own body, as well as any ounce of integrity she might've had, in order to keep her loved one's reputation clean and untarnished. It's sickening, honestly, and while Rachel can't even fathom ever succumbing to something so extreme, she suddenly finds herself empathizing with the sharp-tongued Latina in ways she never imagined she would.

"I'm so sorry," Rachel says softly.

"It didn't work, you know," Santana says bleakly.

"What do you mean?"

"She's getting married this weekend," Santana reveals, the words clearly paining her to say. "My girlfriend, I mean...ex-girlfriend, obviously."

Rachel's heart clenches, saddened once again by the deep notes of melancholy playing all over the woman's face. "I...I'm so, so sorry, Santana," she offers sincerely, knowing there's little else she can say.

"It's alright," she says unconvincingly. "It's better this way, honestly. The guy she's marrying will take better care of her than I ever could...better him than some lesbian whore like me."

Rachel swallows thickly, grappling for anything to offer in consolation. "Well I-I'm sure she wouldn't have dated you if she didn't think you were—"

"Don't," Santana states firmly, holding up a hand to stop Rachel from continuing. "I didn't come here for a pep talk."

Rachel stands in silence for a moment, folding her arms across her chest. "Okay," she says, nodding resolutely, "So what did you come here for then?"

Santana shrugs as she looks down at her fingernails. "I thought I might take it upon myself to drive a wedge between you and your dear sweet hubby-to-be."

"A wedge?" Rachel asks in confusion. "But Jesse and I aren't actually together, Santana."

"Well gee whiz, thanks for clearing that up," Santana says sarcastically. "I'm obviously referring to this little media game you're playing. It's been kind of a snoozefest so far, if you ask me. Rachel and Jesse sittin' in a tree—BORING! What might actually make this story tweetable is a good old fashioned cheating scandal."

"A cheating scandal is what's going to break us up," Rachel informs her. "Jacob's already written the story—you'll see. It's been his plan all along."

"Yes, but his version of the story has you cheating on Jesse with Finn, am I right?"

Rachel nods, still unsure of where this is going.

"Sooo, what exactly are you hoping to accomplish here, Berry? I mean if your whole motive was keep Finn's rep from getting a stain on it, why then are you setting him up to be a homewrecker in the eyes of the public? Although granted that term is rarely applied to men, damn the sexist media."

Rachel exhales, her head spinning. "I understand your point," she states in a lower tone of voice. "However, I can assure you that the repercussions would've been far greater for Finn had I not succumb to Jacob's blackmail...and that's all I'm going to say about that."

"Fine," Santana shrugs dismissively. "But it just astounds me that a woman as driven as you hasn't taken it upon herself to rewrite Jacob's little plotline in your favor."

"Do you not understand the concept of blackmail?" Rachel scoffs. "He'd ruin me in a heartbeat if I did anything to stray from the course."

"And who says you have to be the one that 'strays'?" Santana asks, smirking devilishly. "I happen to know of a certain strip club in Manhattan that Jesse is quite a loyal patron of."

"Gross," Rachel cringes.

"He's a shitty tipper from what I hear. I wouldn't know, I'm just a cocktail waitress." She quirks an eyebrow before adding, "It's just as well—I'm much better at photographing lapdances when I'm not the one giving them."

Santana's implications are suddenly crystal clear, and Rachel can't help but contemplate how easy it would be to simply beat Jacob at his own game. She toys with the idea for only a moment though before shaking her head. "No," she says adamantly. "No, I can't sabotage Jesse like that."

"Can't you?" Santana scoffs. "Not even if your 'devoted fiance' is dumb enough to hit a strip joint as soon as this party's over?"

Rachel flinches in disbelief. "Y-You think he'll go there tonight?"

Santana shrugs. "Why shouldn't he? Lord knows he isn't gettin' any action from you."

Rachel cringes again. Sure, she's never had the highest opinion of Jesse, but she didn't take him for an all-out sleazebag either (although aside from being morally offended she supposes she doesn't actually care what Jesse does with his own spare time).

"So, what do you say?" Santana continues, reading the look of disgust on Rachel's face, "Shall we turn the tables on the man whore for once? If you ask me, you should seriously consider this proposition, Berry. I mean why not expose Jesse's scumbag behavior for your own personal gain? I know it might seem like you're throwing him under the bus, but trust me it's better for him to play the cheater in this scenario than you. His reputation will take a hit, sure, but homeboy wouldn't have a reputation to speak of if it weren't for you! But more importantly, Jesse's a dude. He'll shake it off, he'll run for president, he'll find a way to capitalize on the bad press. I don't make the rules, but believe me when I say that you do not have that luxury, Rachel Berry. If you keep playing by Jew Fro's rules he's going to villainize you in a way that will haunt your entire career, because the media paints a scarlet letter on women who cheat, and they never forget." Santana pauses dramatically before punctuating her long rant with, "What a damn shame it would be if a talent like yours were permanently scarred by some PR stunt that was all bogus to begin with."

The idea is certainly tempting; before Rachel can agree, however, a new wave of skepticism catches her in its grips. Once again her mind can't help but call Santana's ulterior motives into question. Does Rachel even trust the cool, calculating woman standing before her? Of that, she remains uncertain. "You're right, Santana," she begins steadily, "But I'm afraid I'm unable to proceed without knowing what precisely is your angle in all of this."

Santana groans in exasperation. "God Berry, was I speaking Portuegese? I'm literally trying to save your ass here, and you're not in the least bit swayed? Don't you trust me?"

"No," Rachel states without hesitation.

Santana purses her lips in frustration for a moment, then throws her head back laughing. "You know what, Berry, that's probably the smartest damn thing I've heard you say! And you're right—anyone would be a fool to trust a conniving wench like me."

Rachel mulls this over for a moment. "Well, it's not that I believe your intentions are entirely dishonorable."

"Well, believe it," Santana assures Rachel with a grin. "See, here's the thing—if you and I end up co-starring in Victor's new movie, I sure as hell can't have your scandalized reputation overshadowing my debut on the silver screen. No me gusta."

"Well, I don't see why another actress' torrid tabloid persona should pose such a threat to you," Rachel says spitefully.

"Oh, we can share the spotlight, alright. Lord knows Auntie Snixx isn't campaigning to be America's sweetheart. That's your role, Vanilla Berry. You're the Jen Aniston, I'm the Angie Jolie. It can be no other way, comprende?"

Rachel opens her mouth to retort, but quickly deflates, an ironic chuckle escaping her lips instead. "Victor doesn't even want me for that role, you know," she says after a pause. "I think we're both getting a little ahead of ourselves here."

Santana rolls her eyes incredulously. "Oh please, I know he already paid you a little visit to discuss the whole thing."

"Correct, but only to appease the executives back in Hollywood. Victor, on the other hand, quite bluntly assured me that he'd prefer an actress of an entire different size, style, and coloring. Pretty much my polar opposite, if you will."

Santana looks contemplative. "Hm. Well, then you'd better keep your eye on that Aretha girl with the trouty mouth husband."

"You mean Mercedes?"

"Yeah, that's the one," Santana nods.

"Well, I-I don't believe Victor has approached her about the role," Rachel says, feeling slightly threatened by what Santana's suggesting.

"He hasn't," Santana shrugs. "Yet. You know, perhaps I should give that Mercedes broad a call. She ought to be well-versed in what it's like to have Rachel Berry hogging your spotlight every damn day of your life."

"Yes, well, perhaps you should call whomever you want while I call security," Rachel says tightly. She's more than had enough of this bizarre encounter that seems to always bend toward hostility and savageness no matter how many glimpses of humanity she sees in Santana. She attempts to exit the tiny room, only to be blocked by the statuesque Latina.

"You're not really gonna call security on your wedding planner, are you, Bridezilla?" Santana smirks in amusement.

Rachel's jaw tightens in anger, both at herself and at the surly human barrier standing in front of her. She grits her teeth and lowers her voice to a warning tone, saying, "Santana, if you don't move out of the way, I'm going to—"

She's interrupted by a knock at the door, both women jumping at the sound, startled.

"Rachel? Are you in there?" Jesse asks from the other side of the door.

Rachel has to unclench her teeth first, her eyes still blazing with contempt for Santana as she answers, "Yes, yes we are!"

"Well, our guests are getting a little antsy out here, dear," Jesse says. "Perhaps you could continue with the wedding planning later?"

He's obviously irritated, but Rachel gathers by his delicate choice of words that there are people all around him. "Of course, babe, we'll be right there!" she calls back, earning a look of silent ridicule from Santana that Rachel knows she fully deserves.

The Latina continues mocking her with her eyes as she steps aside with exaggerated gracefulness, allowing Rachel access to what's impatiently waiting for her outside the claustrophobic space they've been holed up in for quite some time. Rachel quickly collects herself, plastering a bright smile on her face before pulling the door open.

"Honey!" she greets Jesse with forced chirpiness. "So sorry to have run off on you like that. We simply lost track of time, and, well, you know how us girls are when we get to chatting about—"

"I've been looking all over for you, dear," Jesse interrupts her, his voice sugary sweet despite the blatant irritation in his face that none of the guests loitering curiously behind him can see. "I didn't anticipate your absence being quite so lengthy."

Rachel tries to keep her smile from falling, fighting every urge to simply slam the door in Jesse's face and tell him the party's over. She imagines he has plenty of lady friends he plans on getting more than friendly with later tonight, at least according to what Santana just revealed to her. "Again, I'm terribly sorry to have abandoned you like that," she says lamely, noticing Jacob lurking in the background, his camera poised. "It's just that we—"

"It's my fault," Santana intervenes, appearing beside Rachel in the open doorway. "I've been worrying Rachel's pretty little head about floral arrangements and color palettes and centerpiece options. No wonder we lost track of time, huh, girlfriend?"

Rachel can feel Santana's shoulder nudging gently against hers. She nudges back ever so slightly, an unspoken thank you. "Yes, that's right," Rachel nods in affirmation, easily nailing her enactment of a woman plagued by frustration and overwhelment, no doubt her most genuine performance of the night. "There's just so many decisions to be made, and I...well, I just want everything to be—"

"Perfect," Jesse finishes her thought, his eyes suspiciously narrowing in on the two women he obviously knows are lying to his face (but then again, what part of this entire spectacle isn't a lie?)

"But of course!" Santana exclaims boisterously. "I'm certain that when you chose Rachel to be your bride you had every intention of giving her the picture perfect wedding of her dreams. Am I right, St. James?"

Jesse smirks confidently, despite the dominance Santana has clearly established over him. "Naturally," he answers. He knows they're up to something, and that this mystery woman is definitely not Rachel's wedding planner; he can't call them out now, of course, not right here in the middle of what is supposed to be a celebration of his engagement to Rachel. "I can only hope that Rachel and I hired the right woman for the job," he continues, his voice thick with contempt. "Personally I've always felt that 'wedding planner' was one of those phony job titles you hear about."

"Alright," Rachel interjects, needing to end this exchange before the tension between the three of them becomes apparent to others nearby. She places a hand on Jesse's arm, sweetening her tone of voice considerably as she asks, "Babe, would you mind fetching me a drink? I could certainly use one after all the—"

"After all the plans you've been making, is that it?" Jesse interjects, his eyes full of suspicion as they narrow in on her.

"Th-The wedding plans, yes," Rachel stammers, trying to keep her voice steady as she holds his shrewd gaze.

"Of course. You must be exhausted."

"And thirsty," Rachel adds lamely, not really caring if Jesse gets her a drink or not, just needing to escape his suffocating presence as soon as humanly possible.

"Yeah, fetch me a martini while you're at it, huh, St. James?" Santana orders.

"I think perhaps my fiance should accompany me to the bar," he says through gritted teeth, his heated gaze shifting from Rachel to Santana, "And you, Ms. Whatever-Your-Stripper-Name-Is, should see yourself out."

Rachel nearly scoffs out loud, but instead maintains composure, saying, "Jesse, please, Santana is a friend of mine and she has every right to be here."

"And I'm sure you'll find out soon enough what my stripper name is," Santana mutters, the irony just too rich for her to ignore.

"I beg your pardon?" Jesse questions, not appearing to have heard Santana's little quip, but monumentally irritated by it regardless.

"Nothing, nothing at all," Santana assures him with a patronizing grin.

"I'd kindly remove yourself from this establishment if I were you," Jesse seethes under his breath, paranoia possessing him now, courtesy of the Latina's insinuating words and intimidating presence. Clearly he does have secrets to hide, perhaps more than Santana and Rachel are even aware of.

"I'm pretty sure Rachel still wants me here," Santana condescends.

"She doesn't get a say in this," Jesse growls, Rachel flinching at the way he refers to her as if she isn't even there. As soon as she promptly opens her mouth to assure him just how much of a say she actually does have, she feels him grab her wrist. Hard. So hard she has to stifle the shriek that nearly escapes her lips. "Let's go, Rachel," he orders her.

He tries pulling her away but she resists, wincing as his fingernails dig into her flesh, the infliction of pain clearly intentional on Jesse's part. His aggression is somehow discreet enough not to alarm anyone standing nearby, but Rachel can feel the tears welling up in her throat. She's never been more enraged or humiliated, and meanwhile guests continue mingling about in sheer oblivion of what's occurring under the radar.

"Seems like maybe somebody oughtta call security on you, huh, Chris Brown?" Santana challenges Jesse, her body language protective as she takes a step in closer to Rachel.

* * *

 **To Be Continued...**


	12. Why Can't We Have It All?

**Hi friends. Thank you again to those of you still following this story. I think you're going to like this chapter a little bit better. I hope so anyway :)**

 **And just to clarify, I'm not implying that Rachel and Jesse are huge mega stars or anything. At this point they're basically the talk of the Broadway world, and they're recent "engagement," along with Rachel's Tony nod, has helped pique the media's interest in them. Also, I clearly lied about Jesse redeeming himself lol. Oh well, every story needs a villain I guess, and he tends to work well in that position.**

 **Anyway, thanks again for reading, and happy New Year to you all...xoxo**

* * *

Jesse just scoffs as he tries to appear unthreatened. "Are you suggesting that I be removed my _own_ engagement party?"

"Oh I'm quite certain this security staff will do just about anything I ask of them," Santana implies with a quirked brow. "They're the ones who let me in here, after all. They all seemed to enjoy _my_ persuasive tactics far more than I imagine they'd enjoy yours."

"You're a deplorable," Jesse replies scathingly, tightening the grip he still has on Rachel's wrist.

Rachel is just seconds away from kneeing him in the groin and sprinting toward the nearest exit when the sudden flash of a camera forces all three of them to jump in surprised panic. Jesse reacts immediately, the same hand that was just violently gripping her wrist now resting affectionately against the small of her back. Meanwhile, Santana takes a step back, relaxing her body language so as to appear less confrontational. All of this takes place in the blink of an eye, the hostile trio suddenly acting every bit like three people who've just been reminded that all the world's a stage (especially _this_ world, with gossiping guests and various media personnel lurking all around them).

Rachel somehow forces a smile, directing it toward the thin, bespectacled woman standing just off to the side, her eyes narrowed in on the three of them. It's clear that the journalistic camera hanging from her neck was the source of the flashbulb just now.

"Sorry to interrupt," the journalist says, her tone unapologetic.

Jesse's head snaps toward the woman, the gesture making him appear just as paranoid as Rachel knows he currently feels. "Nonsense!" Jesse exclaims, feigning an air of hospitality. "The three of us have just been discussing menu options for the wedding. Rachel is of the opinion that the menu should be entirely vegan, to which I argued, _Dear, but I'm sure many of our guests would prefer a meat or dairy option as well—_ "

"To which I argued, _Jesse, but I'm sure the innocent_ _ **animals**_ _would prefer not to be slaughtered for the sake of our wedding celebration_ ," Rachel interrupts him, the words firing off her tongue as she struggles to maintain her poise. She can see Santana fighting not to roll her eyes at this ridiculous display.

"Yes, well," Jesse continues with a light-hearted chuckle, "You can see we're still debating the issue."

The journalist remains unimpress by this little show they're putting on. "Menu options, huh?" she asks monotonously.

"Yes, that's right!" Rachel chirps, secretly wishing she could forcibly remove Jesse's hand from her back. Even the slightest touch from him now feels oppressive to her in ways it never did before. "I'm sure we'll find a way to compromise, won't we, hun?"

Jesse turns to look at her. "But of course," he assures her. "We're a partnership of _equals_ , after all, isn't that right, my love?"

Rachel just smiles flimsily in response, her mind unable to conjure a single sentimental word with Jesse staring down at her with sugar-coated contempt in his eyes.

"That's sweet," the journalist deadpans. "You two seem like a real match."

"We certainly are," Jesse affirms, pulling Rachel in closer to his side.

The journalist nods her head slowly, Rachel detecting a suspicious twinkle in her eyes as they zero in on Jesse in particular. Clearly feeling the weight of her stare, Jesse quickly works on charming his way out of it, saying, "Would you like a drink, ma'am? I'd be more than happy to fetch you one from the bar."

"Thanks, I'm good," the journalist declines. Her shrewd gaze has already shifted over to the Latina woman on Jesse's opposite side. "And who are _you_ , by the way?" she asks Santana, interrogation in her tone.

Santana, who'd been standing frozen in mannequin-like boredom for quite some time, simply offers a small shrug. "I'm a friend of the happy couple, obviously," she explains with purposeful ambiguity.

"She's our _wedding planner_ , actually," Jesse is quick to clarify. Santana recoils in disgust at the amicable smile he throws her way.

"Wedding planner, huh?" the journalist repeats, her skeptical eyes shifting over to Rachel in search of confirmation.

Rachel nods agreeably, her stomach churning as she feels Jesse's fingers dig into her back. "Yes, that's correct," she answers weakly.

"I'm the one who hired Ms. Lopez for the job," Jesse interjects. His attempt at reclaiming dominance over the situation backfires instantly, the double meaning in his words evoking an ironic smirk from the already-dubious journalist. Rachel herself can barely keep from chuckling right out loud.

"Is that so?" the journalist asks with a raised brow.

"Oh believe me, Jesse is quite the pro when it comes to hiring women to do _jobs_ for him," Santana quips, taking full advantage of Jesse's little slip of the tongue.

Meanwhile Jesse scrambles to recover himself, his eyes wide as he insists, "No I-I didn't mean...I just meant that—" His head snaps toward Rachel in panic. "Rachel, please kindly explain to this woman that I had never even _met_ Santana Lopez prior to tonight."

Rachel's eyebrows lift in mock surprise. Jesse clearly wants her to be a good little wife and help bail him out of this little hole he's dug himself into; needless to say, Rachel's not really in the mood to save his ass. Instead, she simply gapes back at him in confusion, saying, "Oh Jesse, don't be silly, you know very well that Santana is our wedding planner."

Rachel watches his jaw tighten as the journalist interjects with, "Yeah, and didn't you just claim that _you_ were the one who hired Ms. Lopez?"

Jesse's eyes dart back and forth between the three women, clearly feeling suffocated by their interrogating stares. He opens his mouth to offer whatever flimsy explanation is on the tip of his tongue, but quickly decides not to bother, instead pursing his lips and exhaling in frustration. "I'm going to get a drink," he growls, his hand finally dropping from Rachel's back as he stalks off toward the ballroom.

He doesn't get very far before Artie comes wheeling out of the ballroom, blocking Jesse's path. "Ah, there you two are!" he exclaims to Jesse and Rachel, clearly annoyed by their lengthy absence from the party. "What the hell's going on out here?"

"Nothing's _going on_ ," Jesse says irritably. "I was just on my way to the bar."

"Well, good! Perhaps Rachel can accompany you and then you can both toast a refreshing glass of champagne to your impending nuptials. I'm sure the guests would love to see it! They're getting a little antsy in there, and my sweet dance moves apparently aren't buzzworthy enough to entertain them."

"Now's really not the time," Jesse insists.

Rachel echoes that sentiment, forcing a weak smile that Artie regards with confusion. His eyes shift back and forth between Rachel and Jesse, his brow furrowing as he's quickly made aware of the tense situation he's just wheeled himself into. He looks contemplative for another moment, then shakes his head. "Look, I'm sure all this media hoopla has caused some strain on your relationship. But I'm sure neither of you want any break-up rumours to begin circulating, what with the Tony's just around the corner."

"Butt out, Abrams, this doesn't concern you," Jesse growls.

"Oh no?" Artie argues. "Well, considering your recent success is thanks to a production that _I myself_ was kind enough to cast the two of you in, I'd say my input is more than valid. Besides, it doesn't take a PR genius to know that if you go storming into that ballroom with your fists clenched, the rumors will spread like wildfire and they won't be flattering to you in the least. Am I right, St. James?"

Jesse stubbornly rolls his eyes, although clearly rethinking his next actions and the potential damage they could do to his precious reputation.

"Artie's right, Jesse," Rachel speaks up, Jesse's head swiveling toward her in surprise. "I mean I know we've been quarreling all night about our wedding plans," she continues rather clumsily, "But please, let's not upset our lovely guests who have gathered here in celebration of our engagement."

She can see Jesse eyeing her suspiciously, but he makes no protest, instead just shrugging his shoulders and muttering something in agreement.

"Marvelous," Artie nods in approval. He glances over at Rachel, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

After a moment's hesitation, she obliges, slowly approaching Jesse and taking his arm as she prepares to enter the crowded ballroom as his blissful bride-to-be. It's sort of her last-ditch effort to appear harmonious toward the man she's presumed to be in love with. Also, despite Artie's unwanted meddling in her personal life, she'll always be grateful to him for putting her on the map as an actress. She doesn't wish for this whole lavishly organized event to end in disaster and embarrassment for him (or _her_ , for that matter).

"There, that's better," Artie nods, satisfied that her and Jesse have resumed their positions as a happily engaged couple. "And have I mentioned what a _charming_ pair you two make?"

"Don't think for a second that I'm doing this for _you_ , Abrams," Jesse grumbles.

"You can thank me later," Artie shrugs. He narrows his eyes at the two of them, lowering his voice before continuing, "A little birdie told me that a journalist from none other than _People Magazine_ is in attendance. Not sure where he or she has been loitering about all evening, but I'd suggest being on your best behavior at all times. You never know who might be watching, if you know what I mean." He paints a bright smile on his face, then adds, "Now, let's go toast to your engagement, shall we?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, just pivots his wheelchair and precedes them into the ballroom.

Rachel tries to will herself to move, the thought of toasting champagne to the man standing rigidly beside her making her stomach churn violently. She just hopes the guests don't mind if she downs the entire bottle instead. Her body stiffens even more as she feels Jesse's breath against her ear.

"I know you're up to something," he whispers menacingly. "You and that little Mexican wench better watch your step."

His words make her hair stand on end, but she takes a deep breath to steady herself, her eyes remaining forward. "That's a dangerous threat that I take very seriously," she states in a low voice.

"Well _good_ ," he growls, his mouth impossibly close to her ear; close enough to appear as though he were nibbling affectionately at it. "You should take it very seriously."

Her skin is still crawling as she straightens her posture, Jesse doing the same as both prepare themselves for the show they're about to put on for the crowd of onlookers. Rachel boldly takes the lead, advancing forward into the ballroom when a voice from behind her calls out, "Excuse me, Ms. Berry, you forgot your purse."

She turns and sees the female photographer—the one who'd appeared strangely suspicious of Jesse just now—holding up the small clutch purse that Rachel did indeed leave behind. Rachel thanks her profusely, feeling Jesse shift uncomfortably by her side. It's such a brief exchange that she barely notices the woman wink at her in secret as she retrieves the bedazzled item from her outstretched hand.

Hours later, as she's emptying the contents of that very same purse (it's a loner, an exclusive from the Louis Vuitton spring collection), she discovers a business card filed away behind her lipstick. If she'd had a single ounce of energy left in her body she might've gasped at the name printed elegantly on the mysterious card.

 **Stella Woodward**

 **Executive Editor, People Magazine**

On the back of the card, a handwritten note reads, _I can get you out of this...Call me._

Rachel's brow furrows. She can still feel Jesse's fingernails digging angrily into her lower back. Funny how no one had seemed to notice the bruises on her wrist as she'd continued to flash her engagement ring throughout the remainder of the night; no one aside from Stella Woodward, that is. She exhales in contemplation. Perhaps the whole business of sabotaging Jesse was really just a matter of her standing back and letting him dig his own hole...and then _burying him_ inside it.

That is if he doesn't try suing her for assault first...

 _After the party guests had finally dispersed, with only the most piteous of gossip mongers seeing her and Jesse off in their chauffeured car (Artie's treat), she'd practically fallen out of the backseat door in an effort to be as far away from him as humanly possible while the driver steered them toward their separate residences. Both were exhausted from the rousing "toast" Artie had insisted on dragging them through, Rachel downing glass after glass of champagne, blurring her vision to the point of Jesse's face appearing unrecognizable to her. She almost vomited twice (and the alcohol was only partly to blame). Then, and now, she could feel the hostility radiating off of Jesse, all of it directed towards her, and her alone, as they both rode in contemptuous silence._

 _Rachel was the first to speak, her face stoic, her tone firm and pragmatic as she stated, "Outside of a professional setting, I do not wish to have any contact whatsoever with you from hereon."_

" _Good luck with that," he replied. She kept her eyes focused forward._

" _I also refuse to be alone with you for any length of time," she continued. "You're malevolent and dangerous, and there's no telling what you're capable of behind closed doors. I certainly do not wish to find out."_

 _She heard him scoff bitterly. "Listen to you, victimizing yourself as if_ _ **I'm**_ _the one who can't be trusted. As if you haven't been plotting deviously behind my back with some two-cent whore."_

 _Several cutting responses came to mind, but Rachel held her tongue, figuring she'd use his words against him later. She was getting pretty good at this game._

" _I should've known you wouldn't hesitate to throw me under the bus," Jesse continued. "That's been your plan all along, I'd imagine. It should come as no surprise, really; you'll do anything to stay in the spotlight, and I'm your biggest threat. You've been envious of my talent and versatility since day one. I tried to be charitable, offering to pose as your fake beau so you could ride my coattails—you shot me down, despite my purest intentions. Then, once you finally realized you couldn't afford to neglect me entirely, you came to me with the very same proposition, as if the whole thing had been_ _ **your**_ _idea all along. What a crock of shit."_

 _Rachel held her tongue throughout his entire heated rant, her emotions simmering inside of her, threatening to spill over at any moment. She felt him pivoting in his seat, his eyes burning into her profile with venomous intent._

" _I know you think you're some once in a lifetime talent, Berry. But let me assure you, you're as replaceable any ameature doing street theatre in Central Park. It's far too early for you to have reached your peak, but I'm afraid you already have. The public will lose interest in you the second they realize how overrated you actually are." He paused dramatically before adding, "Besides, there isn't a chance in hell of you pecking your way into Hollywood with a_ _ **nose**_ _like that. I'd love to see you try, anyway."_

 _She was practically seething on the inside, her teeth clenched, her hands balled into tiny fists as the driver slowed to a stop in front of Jesse's building. She somehow managed to breath deeply, a sense of calm washing over her as Jesse opened the door on his side, preparing to exit the car after muttering a spiteful goodnight._

" _Oh, just one more thing before you go," Rachel said to him. With one leg out of the car, he turned his head to look at her, surprised; he must've thought he'd paralyzed her with his vicious words._

 _CLONK._

 _She decked him across the face with her purse, unable to resist giving him a parting gift before he went. Jesse gaped at her in shock, the shock switching to outrage as he tasted a bit of his own medicine. Unfortunately for him, the driver had just lowered the partition separating the front seat from the back, making him powerless to retaliate in any way. Rachel caught the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror; he was suspicious, yes, but most likely indifferent to the antics of celebrities by now. And besides, Rachel had somehow managed to clock Jesse just in time. It's doubtful the driver had even witnessed her release of pent-up aggression._

" _Have a lovely night, Jesse," she tells him. A satisfied smirk flirted with her lips as Jesse continued to gape at her in awe, his eyes shooting daggers across the backseat. Words appeared to have escaped him momentarily, and so she seized the opportunity to deal him one last blow, her tone merry with contempt as she informed him, "And by the way, it might interest you to know that a Hollywood director by the name of_ _ **Victor Vasquez**_ _paid a visit to my dressing room not long ago. He seemed to think my nose was appropriately sized, and so do I. Sweet dreams."_

 _It was all she could do not to laugh out loud at the stupefied look that flooded his face. He was so stunned, she thought she might actually have to shove him out the door, the driver's impatient sigh finally mobilizing him to exit out onto the street. The driver wasted no time stepping on the gas, seeming quite eager to dump Jesse off at the curb and speed away._

 _It wasn't long before she was deposited in front of her own building, Rachel quickly exiting the car's suffocating confines, reveling in the refreshing night air that kissed her face. Her moment of tranquility was short-lived, anxiety consuming her as she began to sense that she was not alone. Perhaps it was only paranoia making her feel as though her every move were being watched, preyed upon by some stranger lurking in the bushes; the media had instilled that fear in her, and, after what had transpired tonight, so had Jesse._

 _She hurried to the door, her uneasiness making her fumble clumsily for her keys. She would swear she saw a flashbulb out of the corner of her eye, although that too could have been a figment of her imagination._

Those figments continue to haunt her even now that she's safe within the confines of her own apartment. Immediately she'd closed all the curtains, wondering if the paparazzi's intrusive lenses were in fact powerful enough to see straight through the linen material. She knows she's being silly, and that no one's hiding behind her couch (although she did check). Still, it's quite unsettling, this anxiety she feels; she can't accept that this is simply her reality now that she's entered the limelight.

And she admits, it isn't so much the blinding glare of the flashbulbs putting her ill at ease. As of now, it's mainly Jesse's ominous words, "You better watch your step," making her jump at every noise. She's always known Jesse to be conniving, yes, but she never actually _feared_ him prior to tonight. It's anyone's guess as to what he's capable of, and she suspects she's already provoked him in the worst possible way.

This was never supposed to end prettily, but now it's likely going to end with one of them burying the other on their own terms, instead of on Jacob's. The game has changed; now it's just a matter of who will strike first, and _when_.

As her eyes narrow in on Stella Woodword's business card, she wonders if perhaps Jesse has allies more powerful than her own. That certainly doesn't _appear_ to be the case. Jesse has skeletons in his closet; Rachel knows that. And Jesse knows that she knows. Rather than feeling like she's got the upper hand, however, she only feels that much more wary of how far he'll go to sabotage _her_.

As always, even her most troubling patterns of thought lead her back to one thing. It's been an excruciating number of days since she last saw his face, and yet the funny thing about Finn is how powerfully she feels him even when he's _not_ here. When he'd insisted she take some "space" for herself, he'd overlooked the fact that she can't help but take her heart with her everywhere she goes. Her heart's where he is, all the time, and so she takes him everywhere too.

It's breaking every day, though, because though she keeps him inside her heart, she can't touch him, and so it's a faraway kind of closeness that she feels. And that, well, she thinks that kind of closeness might very well be the worst kind.

A day ago she would've taken comfort in the fact that she was doing all of this to protect him. But now...oh God, now she wonders if Jesse would, or _could_ , hurt Finn in any way. Panic strikes her like a bolt of lightning as she scrambles to find her phone. It's dead, her overcrowded mind neglecting to charge it when she'd arrived home.

Feeling frantic, like her one line of communication has been cut, she hurriedly plugs in, fidgeting impatiently as the device slowly powers back to life.

A knock at the door practically sends her through the ceiling. Of course the timing couldn't be more cinematic, a fact she's unable to appreciate in her real life state of distress. Breathing deeply to steady herself, her heart beats like a drum as she approaches the front door. It takes only a glimpse through the peephole for a loud cry to erupt from her throat. After unchaining the locks, feeling like she could rip the door off its hinges, she launches herself forward into his arms.

* * *

She's crying so hard he has to remove them both from the hallway to avoid waking her neighbors. He doubts she's even conscious of being carried from one place to another, and while he barely feels her lightweight body in his arms, he does _feel_ _her_ , deeply and profoundly, in every true sense of the word.

He just holds her for a while, trying to soothe her with loving words and soft kisses to her hair and forehead. He grows increasingly worried, however, as giant sobs continue racking her tiny frame, and so he carries her over toward the kitchen, guiding her to sit in one of her chairs at the table.

"Rach, Rach, you need to calm down, okay?" he says gently, turning away from her only briefly to fetch a glass of water from the sink. Kneeling down in front of her, he holds the glass to her shaky lips. "Here, drink this for me, baby. Please."

She looks at him through swollen, tear-soaked eyes, coughing a few times before finally steadying herself enough to seize hold of the glass, her fingertips covering his own. He strokes her knee with his opposite hand as she takes a drink. After placing the glass on the table, he uses his sleeve to wipe the tears from her face.

"I can't believe you're actually here," she utters, looking at him in awe.

He reassures her with a soft smile. "I'm sorry to just show up like this. I tried calling first, but your phone was off. Are you...I mean is everything, you know...alright?"

He hears the absurdity of the question as her tear-streaked face continues to tell a story of a girl who is _not_ alright. He's not alright either, considering none of those tears would even be there she'd never met him in the first place.

"I'm so sorry, Finn," he hears her say, causing him to flinch in surprise.

"You're sorry?" he repeats. "Sorry for what?"

"This whole insane thing with Jesse," she says in dismay. "I'm sure you've seen the photos and read the stories by now, but Finn, you have to know that none of it's—"

"Of course I know it's not real, Rach, Kurt explained everything to me," Finn assures her. He exhales tightly, his face creased with distress. "And yeah, the thought of you being engaged to Jesse, even though it's fake, makes me physically sick, but Rach, the thing that really kills me is that you thought you had to do this because of me."

"I didn't do it because of you, Finn," she argues. "I did it _for_ you. For us."

He shakes his head adamantly. "Rachel, you should've just let that little twerp expose me, which would've been _exactly_ what I deserved. His evidence is pretty weak anyway, I mean it's not like he has _me_ on tape admitting to foul play. But regardless, you should've let me lay in the bed I made, instead of compromising yourself to protect me from the consequences."

"Well, I'm sorry for not throwing you to the dogs, which is what everyone, including your own step-brother, seems to feel I should've done," Rachel exclaims, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry if I hold onto the things that matter to me."

"Don't be sorry for that, Rachel, just don't lose your grip on your own career, your own integrity, your own _sanity_ , for God's sake. All those things should matter to you a hell of a lot more than protecting me."

She releases a shuddering breath, shaking her head in sadness as she looks at him. "But why can't we have it all?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper.

Her words affect him, touching him in places only she could ever reach. He lowers his head, his lips landing on the small hand that rests in her lap. She continues sniffling, crying softly as the fingers of her opposite hand come to rest on top of his head, stroking delicately through his thick hair. It occurs to him that he really ought to answer her question, even though he doesn't quite believe it wholeheartedly, at least not for himself. "You can," he murmurs against her smooth skin. He knows she was reaching for something more, but if there's one thing he can say with absolutely certainty it's that he'll always believe in _her_.

" _We_ can," her hears her say. There's no determination in her voice, just a sweet, sweet hopefulness that nearly brings tears to his eyes.

He sits up straight again, keeping her small hand in his. When he offers her a soft smile, the one she offers him in return is beautiful, although not nearly as bright and wide as it should be. They share a quiet moment, his eyes indulging in the sight of her sitting before him. It's only now that he takes note of the rather elaborate dress she's wearing. He'd been so preoccupied with trying to calm her (only to then scold and berate her, like the idiot he is) that he'd overlooked the fact that she's more or less red carpet ready; or at least she _was_ , at one point. He figures her mascara-stained cheeks and bare feet weren't part of the original look.

"You look gorgeous," he tells her sincerely, breaking the silence.

"Thank you," she says softly. Her smile fades, bitterness flooding her features as she sighs miserably. "It was the absolutely _worst_ night imaginable."

"What happened?" he asks, stroking her hand with his.

"Artie insisted on throwing Jesse and I an engagement party," she says with distaste.

Finn can't help but cringe at the thought. He's been avoiding the Broadway blogs for that very reason, not wishing to be taunted by glossy images of her posing "happily" beside a man who isn't him. "Um, wow...that must've been pretty—"

"It was awful, Finn. _Awful_. It would've been bad enough without Artie inviting the entire theatre community. He's so gung-ho about all the publicity Jesse and I have brought to the show that he decided to turn the whole thing into an elaborate media affair as well." She sighs again, the memories making her wince. "I had to stand there schmoozing with these people for hours, gushing about the ring, the wedding, the proposal. You'd think it would've come natural to me, but I swear, there's something about _that_ kind of acting that makes me think they ought to revoke my Tony nomination."

"Of course not, you _earned_ that nomination, Rachel," he assures her. "And you're going to win, I know you are. I just think this kind of acting is harder for you, because...well, because it's different when something's _supposed_ to be real. You know?"

She nods, gazing at him deeply, with conviction. "I know what _is_ real," she whispers, bringing her hand to his face, gently pulling him in for a kiss.

Her lips feel like heaven against his, filling his heart with tenderness and love for her. There's no urgency in the kiss, just an intimacy beyond words as one revels in the sweetness of the other. They pull away eventually, Finn leaning in to peck her on the cheek once more before settling back on his knees to look at her.

"That was the realest thing I've felt in a long time," Rachel says, gazing at him fondly.

He smiles. That was probably the realest thing he's felt in all his life. "I love you, Rachel," he tells her, his eyes glossy with emotion. "And I just...I want more than anything for all your dreams to come true."

"I love you too, Finn. And we will get through this, okay? You and me, together."

He can't not smile at her hopefulness, even though half of his heart aches. He won't ruin the moment by telling her about his plans for tomorrow. For now he's just so happy to be here with her that he tells himself tomorrow is no such thing.

"God, I must look awful," Rachel muses, stirring him from his temporary daze. "Viola's going to kill me for crying all over this dress."

"I'm sure she's used to celebrities crying," he reasons. "That's pretty much all they do, isn't it?"

"Yes, well, at least _I_ do most of my ugly crying in private. Otherwise I'd be destined to become an internet meme."

They both chuckle, the mood lightening considerably. It doesn't last, however, Rachel bringing her hand up to wipe at the clumps of dried mascara around her eyes, calling Finn's attention to something that makes his features darken instantly. He exhales slowly, his brow forming a hard line as he attempts to process what he at least _thinks_ he might be looking at.

"What?" Rachel asks, disturbed by his expression. Her gaze drops to where his eyes are fixated, the angry red marks circling her right wrist causing her to gasp as if she too were noticing them for the first time. Acting on instinct, she quickly snatches her wrist from his line of sight, using her opposite hand to cover the scars of pain infliction. It's too late, her fruitless attempt at hiding just confirming the fact that he was never supposed to see those scars, and that whoever put them there, put them there maliciously. The thought makes his blood pulse so hotly between his ears that he has to take a few breaths to steady himself before asking her the inevitable question.

"Rachel," he begins, his voice low and stern, "What happened to your wrist?" He looks at her fervently, warning her not to embellish anything. He's already put the pieces together on his own, anyway.

She avoids his gaze, her breath picking up as she fidgets anxiously in her seat.

"Rachel," he repeats, not backing down. "I _need_ you to tell me who hurt you. Who was it? Was it him? Did he…?"

Her gaze finally lifts to meet his, her tear-filled eyes telling him everything he already knew. It's as if someone pulled a trigger inside of him, his feet bounding toward the door in furious strides.

"No, Finn!" Rachel pleads, practically throwing herself in front of him before he can reach the door.

"Rachel," he warns her through gritted teeth.

"Finn please, you can't go out there, you can't get involved in this!"

"Rachel, if you think you're going to talk me out of beating the shit out of him, you're insane," he tells her, his strong hands lifting her off the floor, removing her from his path.

" _Finn!_ " she cries again, her small body lunging after him, her movements frantic as her tiny fingers claw at him through the fabric of his shirt. She succeeds in stopping him, only because he fears her following him out into the hall and disturbing everyone in the building. With one hand gripping the doorknob he turns and looks down into her wide, panic-stricken eyes.

Despite the anger pulsating inside of him, he's overwhelmed by the urge to take her in his arms and hold her close. So he does, embracing her tightly against his chest, a choked sob escaping her throat as he buries his face in her soft hair. His heart rate has slowed significantly by the time he pulls her trembling body away from his, taking her hand and leading her over to sit on the couch in the living room.

She wipes at the moisture around her eyes, taking deep breaths to collect herself before her gaze finally settles on him. "Thank you," she tells him softly.

"This isn't over, Rachel," he insists, shaking his head adamantly. "There's no way that scumbag's getting away with putting his hands on you. I don't care what his reasoning was, I won't allow it."

"But Finn, you have to," Rachel pleads. "You getting involved in this right now would be the worst possible thing for both of us."

"But Rach—"

"Finn, there's a spotlight on me now—Jesse too. As chivalrous as your intentions are, you can't just gang up on a man whom the public presumes to be my fiance without there being serious consequences on your end." She pauses, swallowing thickly before continuing, "And I think...I think you know that there are _other_ reasons why you injecting yourself into the spotlight right now would be an unwise choice."

He opens his mouth to protest but the words die immediately on his tongue. He's not even sure what they were anyway. Because she's right; the whole reason she got into this mess in the first place was to keep Jew Fro from ratting him out. All her efforts to protect his name would certainly go to waste if he were to end up in jail for murdering Jesse St. James. "You're right," he sighs in frustration.

Rachel breathes steadily, relieved for the moment that he's not marching across town to pulverize Jesse. There's something lingering in the air, though, some crucial part of the story she's not telling him. He tries to coax it from her gently as he reaches for her hand, his fingers sliding up to stroke the marks around her her wrist, the sight making his blood boil all over again.

Her eyes lift to meet his, a sense of urgency causing her to stiffen in her seat. "I think you should keep an eye on Santana," she tells him in a low voice.

His brow furrows as he struggles to compute. He's pretty sure any of his girlfriends from the past would've told him to keep his eyes on anything _but_ his full-figured Latina friend. "Wait, what? What does Santana have to do with any of this?"

Her eyes drop to the floor, a humorless chuckle escaping her. "Well, I guess you two really aren't that close anymore, otherwise you'd know that she basically crashed the party tonight."

Finn shakes his head, still not following.

"It's a long story," she continues. "I promise I'll explain everything later, but for now all you need to know is that she happens to possess some particularly damaging information on Jesse...and yes, it's exactly the type of dirt you'd expect a woman like her to have on a man."

"Uhh, okay," Finn nods slowly. "I mean I'm all for putting Jesse in a bad light...but I guess I'm just confused. Why would she go out of her way to help you in this scenario?"

"She's not without her ulterior motives," Rachel implies. "But at the same time, her efforts seem oddly...genuine. And from a PR standpoint, exposing Jesse's philanderings with strippers _would_ allow me to exit this engagement swiftly _and_ look like a victim in the eyes of the public...which we all know is far better than the alternative."

"And what is the alternative?" Finn asks. "I mean this thing with you and Jesse was going to end eventually, anyway, right? It has to, because it's all bogus."

Rachel nods reassuringly. "Yes, of course, but if I continue playing by Jacob's rules, he's going to devise a scenario that has _me_ cheating on Jesse...with _you_."

Finn's still struggling to follow all of this, his head spinning. "But I'm nobody," he argues.

"Nobody _famous_ ," Rachel corrects him. "Which makes you the perfect mystery man for me to run off with, effectively breaking the engagement as well as Jesse's heart."

Finn scoffs. As if that smug bastard even has a heart to break in the first place.

"Oh trust me, he'll love every minute of it," Rachel elaborates, seeming to follow Finn's train of thought. "He'll gladly revel in the support of an empathetic public while I get branded as a cheating wench—a title I'm unlikely to ever fully live down. The media isn't too forgiving of that sort of thing. Santana helped point that out to me."

His face has long since clouded over, his mind coming to grips with the greater implications of this whole insane thing. And still, her eyes burn with such sincere determination, a desire to go forth in hopes that it will all be worth it in the end.

 _But what end, exactly?_

His breath hitches as his eyes lift to study her beautiful face. Here she is, the most talented girl he's likely to ever know, willing to proceed with some torrid media scandal, effectively slandering her own name just as her career's on the verge of exploding like the supernova it was meant to become.

He begins shaking his head, the movement originating somewhere in the tips of his toes. "No," he says with more conviction than has ever possessed him. "No Rachel, you can't let it come to this. You did nothing wrong, none of this is your fault. You didn't cheat, you didn't lie, you didn't make an illegal bargain to secure Sam Evans' contract." He sighs in exasperation, dropping his head into his hands. "I just...Rachel, I know you're trying to protect me, but you have to understand that _this_ hurts me more."

When he looks at her again her face is downturned, her shoulders sagging in defeat. She releases a shuddering breath. "I just thought I could...I mean I just wanted to—"

"Oh baby, I know," he assures her, scooting close to her on the couch and taking her in his arms. "I know you wanted to protect me...to protect _us_. And I love you so much for that, Rachel. I love your hopefulness, and how you always believe you can make things better...you've changed me, Rachel, did you know that?" She sniffles quietly against his chest, leaning further into him. "But Rach," he continues. He pulls away from her slightly, gently gripping her shoulders in his hands and giving her a pointed look. "I want you to leave me out of the equation when it comes to this sort of thing. I never want you making sacrifices for me, or even for us. I want everything to be about _you_ , and the dreams that are in your heart."

She looks at him, clearly moved by what he said, but stubbornly resistant all at once. "Well, you're asking the impossible, I'm afraid," she says, a smile ghosting across her features.

"Why's that?"

Continuing to hold his gaze, she takes his hand from her shoulder and places it over heart, covering it with her own. "Because you _are_ my heart," she tells him, squeezing his hand in hers. "Don't you see, Finn? You're a part of me now, which means I can't help but take you with me everywhere I go...and I need you to realize once and for all that that's a thing I wouldn't change for the world. Because it's a good thing, Finn, a beautiful thing. You've changed me too, every bit for the better, and I...well, I also want you to know that no matter what happens regarding this whole thing with Jesse that I intend on dedicating any award I win to you."

By now his face as softened with an affection so deep, and of such magnitude that he almost doesn't know _how_ to feel it. But he adapts to it quickly, feeling every bit of his heart brimming with love like champagne spilling over a glass. Because she's right, and nothing has ever been more so. There's no use in trying to detach himself from her, or herself from him. He could go to the ends of the earth and still feel her presence just as strongly as if she were sitting right next to him on a couch.

She sits in silence, letting the powerful conviction in her words absorb him like a blanket. While she's waiting she takes his hand from her heart and brings it to her lips, holding it there as if she were sealing a promise. He looks down at her with a love that simply cannot be contained a moment longer, pulling her hand away, and replacing it with his own lips, kissing her with every tender inclination he knows. His arms encircle her tiny, precious body, the one he'd do anything for, as the sheer force of his kiss gently lowers her back against the couch.

It's nothing short of an indulgence as he tastes her mouth, seeking her out and pulling her out from the insides. His hands explore the contours of her back, not wanting to tear at the threads of her designer dress, but still wishing to get at her, at the deepest parts of her it's possible for him or anyone to ever reach. It's with urgency, yes, but also with a passion sustainable enough to ignite over a dozen darkened lifetimes.

"Finn," she exhales a sharp breath every time their kiss breaks only briefly, always diving right back in for more, like his lips are a lifeline.

But a moment so pure, too pure for this world, was doomed to end abruptly; and so it does, the sound of someone knocking insistently upon a dense surface immediately slicing through the dreamy orchestral rhythm they'd been lulling in for quite some time. Rachel's reaction, however, disturbs him infinitely more than the unwelcome noise. It's as if gunshots had been fired as she sits bolt upright, forcing him up as well. She gasps loudly, her wide eyes darting toward the door in panic, then making a trek around the entire room as if she feared what was lurking behind the couch they were sitting on.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," he assures her, gathering her into his arms. "It's just the neighbors, babe, it's fine." Her breathing is almost frantic as she clings to him through the fabric of his shirt. Truth be told, it took him a moment to register that it was in fact someone out in the hall knocking on a door that was not her own. And while most would typically jump at a loud noise late at night, he's both confused and concerned as to how Rachel could be so easily triggered by such a thing.

He just holds her, continuing to kiss her hair and forehead until gradually her breathing evens out, her grip on him loosening slightly. "Rach?" he asks gently. He feels her slowly pull away from him, embarrassment replacing the wide-eyed paranoia that had consumed her a moment ago.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I'm just a little...on edge."

"How come?" he asks. And then it hits him, as hard as the hits he'd like to deal all over a certain smug bastard's face. He'd nearly stormed out of here on a mission to give Jesse a taste of his fist before Rachel had pleaded for him not to go. But there's more to the story, he knows it, and his mind harkens back to the urgency in Rachel's tone as she'd asked him to keep an eye on Santana. He'd found the request a bit baffling at first, but now he's more than convinced that the scars around Rachel's wrist, as well as her sincere concern for a woman she barely knows, have everything to do with her shellshocked behavior just now.

Rachel remains silent, avoiding his eyes as her hands fidget restlessly in her lap. "Rachel, why did you bring up Santana just now?" Finn persists. "Did something happen? Did Jesse hurt her too?"

"No," she answers softly. "But he might...he threatened to…" she trails off.

"Threatened to what? Rachel, I need you to tell me."

She exhales a shuddering breath, her whole body tensing. "He threatened to...to do something to her."

"To do what?" Finn urges. "To hurt her?"

"I-I don't know," she shakes her head. "Possibly. He knows she and I are up to something. He's completely paranoid that one of us is going to ruin him in the media."

Finn's face continues to darken as his mind hinges on her ominous words, particularly the words _She and I_. "So he threatened you too," he states.

Rachel's eyes flicker up to meet his, confirming everything he already knew. He can tell by the way she lunges herself slightly forward that she half expects him to go charging toward the door all over again. "Finn, it's okay, Jesse's _not_ going to hurt me," she insists.

"I'm pretty sure he already did," he says through gritted teeth. "And don't you _dare_ try telling me this is okay, Rachel."

"Finn, the Tony Awards are five days away, it wouldn't exactly be a good look for Jesse to show up on the red carpet with a battered fiancee," Rachel argues. "Jesse knows that, and that's why I'm confident he poses no threat to my safety."

"Oh, is that why you panicked at the sound of someone knocking on your neighbor's door just now?" Finn challenges.

She opens her mouth in protest, but immediately resigns. Her whole countenance crumples as she releases a deflating breath, her head dropping miserably into her hands. Finn's heart clenches at the sight of her, and he wishes they were doing anything but _this_ right now. He places a gentle hand on her back. "Rachel," he breathes.

She pinches the bridge of her nose, exhaustion clearly pressing down upon her like a boulder. "Finn, I already emphasized the importance of you staying out of this," she states, her voice pragmatic. "However, I can't expect you to take any of this lightly...and you're right, the events of tonight, the threats Jesse made, have left me completely paranoid, and I don't want to sit around my own apartment feeling like a basket case who jumps at every noise."

Finn's brow furrows in confusion. "So what are you saying?" he asks.

She lifts her head to look at him, her eyes wide and slightly vulnerable. "Well, I was thinking maybe I...could come with you?"

His face floods with deep affection as he cups her cheek in his hand, smiling warmly. "You can come everywhere with me, Rachel," he assures her.

 _Everywhere that's not a jail cell, that is._

She smiles back at him, an adorable shyness creeping over her. "Well I-I don't want to impose on you, of course. I just figure it would help throw the vultures off my trail if I were, you know, someplace else. Someplace...safe."

"You're safe with me, Rachel," he says with conviction. "Always."

He knows he really shouldn't promise that, that he's still _so_ uncertain of what tomorrow holds. With the Evans deal taking a disturbingly lengthy amount of time to become finalized, the whole thing feels like it's teetering on the brink of combustion. That, along with his suspiciously abrupt resignation from _Sylvester & Shuester_ has raised far too many eyebrows, particularly among those who've been trying to bury him for years. With his actions doomed to be brought to light eventually, his only resolution had been to turn himself in willingly, in hopes that his attack of conscience might prove him worthy of a lesser punishment. He'll never work as a sports agent again, but at least he might get to watch Rachel win five Tonys and ten Grammys and fifteen Oscars on the TV in his own living room, rather than on the one he shares with criminals in the common room of a prison.

That had been his thought process no more than an hour ago when he'd knocked on her door. He hadn't planned on telling her goodbye, at least not explicitly. Every synonym for the word would've been heavy on his tongue, however, his insides crumbling like a city of ruins as he'd memorized every inch of her beautiful face. And he'd know all along that he'd be watching her life play out from afar, and that his heart was hers, and hers completely, even in its shattered state.

But that was before he saw what scars had been inflicted upon her while he'd been away. The distress in her eyes as she'd clung to him as if he were the realest thing she knew. And here he'd left her all alone, thinking he was doing the right thing, only to find that nothing whatsoever had been righted. Everything had gone terribly, _terribly_ wrong.

"Finn...?" she asks, her voice stirring him from his temporary daze. "Finn, I hope I'm not overwhelming you with all of this. If you don't...I mean if you don't want me to come with you I would certainly understand…"

She's looking at him so timidly, clearly misreading his troubled expression. All his troubles give way to tenderness, at least for the time being, as he smiles at her sincerely, taking her face in his hands. "No, sweetheart. You're coming with me," he assures her. "I know just the place for us."

* * *

 **TO BE CONTINUED...**


	13. The Runaways

It feels like they're both in escapist mode as Rachel hurries to pack a suitcase full of her most essential items. He already helped her change out of her designer party dress (carefully, as though it were made of glass), and now waits patiently as she buzzes around the room. There's a sense of urgency in the air, as well as the excitement of running away together like two bandits in the night. They're not exactly Bonnie and Clyde, but he knows that despite the incredibly screwed-up situation they're in, Rachel can't help but appreciate the drama of this particular moment.

They're both pulsing with adrenaline as the elevator descends to the bottom floor, Rachel squeezing his hand tightly as the doors fling open. The lobby is completely deserted—thankfully, because he thinks the oversized black hoodie Rachel's wearing, along with the insane discrepancy in their height, probably just makes him look like he's some creep trying to abduct a small child.

The cab he sent for has already arrived, waiting outside the back door near the janitor's closet, just as he'd requested. He helps Rachel into the backseat, then slides in beside her. The corners of her lips turn up into a smile as he instructs the driver where to take them; it's hardly a desert island they're running off to, but it feels like a secret. _Their_ secret. He smiles back at her, pulling her body close as the cab weaves its way throughout the city. Their great escape.

* * *

He wishes the crumbling brick exterior was actually concealing a castle on the inside. Something slightly more glamorous, at least, than the warehouse apartment that awaits them. His face floods with embarrassment as he escorts her inside his veritable bachelor pad. He's been living here all by himself for the past ten days, and the place is a bit of a mess—clothes everywhere, dishes in the sink. Had he known this was going to happen he would've worked like mad to straighten things up; but of course, he wasn't exactly expecting company of _any_ kind, and so it's a complete dump he's brought her back to. Romantic, right? Maybe _this_ is why his mom always made him clean his room when he was younger.

Judging by Rachel's reaction, however, you'd think she'd just walked into a palace. Her eyes are glazed with relief as she glances fondly all around the place, seeming not to even notice its state of disarray. If anyone in the future tries to accuse Rachel Berry of being some snob with extravagant tastes, well, they'll be dead wrong. "Oh Finn, I'm so glad you brought me here," she exclaims.

"Really?" he asks, cringing at the empty containers of Chinese food sitting all over the furniture. Kurt would kill him if he saw what's happened to his vintage flea market chairs.

"Yes," she affirms, practically bouncing up and down on her toes. Her enthusiasm overtakes her as she bounds forward into his arms.

He can't help but chuckle as she crashes into him, wrapping his arms tightly around her sweatshirt-clad frame. As always, her ability to get excited over literally anything is so infectious. He'd give anything for her to be this happy all the time.

"Oh Finn, I can't explain how good this feels," she gushes. "It's like...it's like we're the runaways. Nobody knows we're here. No one _needs_ to know, it's just you and me... _you and me_ , baby, and isn't it the most amazing thing?"

"Yeah," he nods, smiling warmly.

She squeals in delight, throwing her arms around him as he lifts her off the floor. As he spins her around and around, all the misplaced clutter in the room, and within their two worlds, seems to smooth itself over, falling into its rightful place, at least for tonight.

He hovers over her on the bed, worshipping her body until the dawn breaks over the horizon. " _I love you...I love you, Finn, I love you…"_ By then she's literally shaking, tears in her ears, because she can't sustain this pleasure. Only in waves can it wash over her intermittently. He's twice her size, but he knows the feeling. Every inch of his skin is so sensitized; his soul is the same, every inch of its infinity so completely aware of her being. It's as if they've got other bodies in other worlds that were built to sustain this endlessly...but in _this_ world, they've got to rest to recover themselves. And they do, at dawn, exhaustion pulling them both under.

He knows how deeply they're intertwined, because as he sleeps with her in his arms, he sees her in his dreams. He knows she sees him too.

* * *

He feels rested when he wakes up, despite having only slept for three hours. It's not hard to figure why, with Rachel's body curved perfectly against his. It had been a rather intense night, full of highs and lows; the highs, of course, had made up for even the lowest of the lows. Just the fact that she's here, nestled safely under the covers beside him, makes him feel like at least _one thing_ in the world is righter than it was the day before. He knows that's not saying much, and that things are nowhere near as right as they _should_ be. Their troubles are far from over; in fact, if he sticks with his original plan for today, it's safe to say his greatest troubles are just beginning.

He doesn't want to think about all of that right now, though, feeling the tension lift from his body as he studies the sunlight falling with affection all over Rachel's sleeping face. The last thing he wants to do is wake her, knowing she needs the rest more than anything. Feeling a bit restless in his own bones, however, he decides to get up, kissing her softly before he exits the bed. He gazes down at her while he tugs his t-shirt over his head, kissing her again before leaving the makeshift bedroom.

He feels an overwhelming need to be productive, if only to channel some of the nervous energy gnawing at his insides. More than anything, though, he wants to do something nice for Rachel, his baby. He _did_ actually manage to drag his ass to the store once this past week, so he has a few groceries stocked in the kitchen, including coffee, which he knows is essential to Rachel's wake-up process.

He brews the coffee strong, for both of them, then cooks some eggs on the stove. He figures this morning will be the exception to Rachel's vegan ways; they are "hiding out," so to speak, so their food supply is scarce and limited. That's putting it dramatically, he knows, but it _is_ sort of fun to think of it that way. Their own little romantic hideaway...err, well, he reconsiders the word "romantic" as his eyes survey this dingy hole of an apartment they're in. Given the circumstances, however, there's probably no better place for her to be. He knows even the most lecherous members of the New York media are unlikely to come searching for Broadway's newest starlet among the decaying ruins of Brooklyn. And as far as Jesse's concerned, well, it only took Finn one look at that smug bastard to figure he was far too big of a chump and a snob to ever set foot in a neighborhood like this. More importantly, however, is the fact that Finn has _no problem_ setting foot in the neighborhood where _Jesse_ lives.

He holds that thought as he takes a long drink of his coffee, his brow creasing as he gazes across the wide open space at Rachel's sleeping form. Suddenly it occurs to him that considering all the disturbing things she revealed to him last night, he really ought to be doing a hell of a lot more than making bacon and eggs right about now.

After lowering his coffee cup from his lips, setting it on the counter, he reaches immediately for his phone. He removes the pan of eggs from the hot burner, the bacon still browning in the oven as he moves toward the door, taking one more glance over his shoulder at Rachel before sliding it open as quietly as he possibly can. Once he's out in the deserted hallway, he dials Puck's number.

"Hello?" Puck answers right away, sounding a bit urgent.

"Hey dude, it's me," Finn speaks into the phone.

"No shit it is, you fucktard! Do you think your stupid name didn't pop up on my screen just now? Although I don't know why I don't just delete you from my contacts since you're _obviously_ too M.I.A. these days to bother hollering at your best bro."

"Look I'm sorry I didn't call sooner, I'll explain everything later, but right now I need you to do me a favor."

Puck scoffs. "A favor, huh? Is that all you want after blowing me off for the past ten days? What am I, a chick I've banged?"

Finn groans. He knows Puck has every right to be pissed at him, but he _really_ doesn't have time for this right now. "Look, dude, I really am sorry."

"You better be," Puck grumbles. "Where the fuck are you, anyway? I didn't know there were buildings tall enough to hide you in this city."

"I, uh…" Finn trails off, debating whether or not he should disclose that information. As much as he trusts Puck, he thinks it's probably best that his and Rachel's location remain unknown, at least for the time being. "I'm staying with a friend," he says vaguely, evoking another loud scoff from Puck.

"Seriously, dude? You're not even gonna tell me?"

Finn sighs as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Look, things have just, they've gotten a little out of hand, and I need you to take care of something for me...well actually, it's not for me, it's for Rachel."

He hears Puck blow out a deep breath. "What is it?" he asks after a pause.

"It's about Jesse," Finn reveals. "You know, that smug-faced co-star of hers?"

"Yeah, and what do you want me to do, give him a nice foot massage?"

"Not exactly," Finn sighs. "I was thinking of something a little more...intimidating."

"I _knew_ you always hated that guy," Puck says with a chuckle.

"You have no idea," Finn mutters. He can feel Puck's hesitance on the other end of the line.

"Look, bro, you know I'm always game for a beat down, but you're kind of asking at a bad time. I got into a bar fight a couple weeks back and the guy whose ass I whooped decided to press charges—even though _he's_ the one who started shit with _me_. Fuckin' pussy. Anyway, I _really_ need to stay out of trouble right now, if you know mean."

"I'm not asking you to beat anybody up," Finn clarifies. "I just need you to intimidate the hell out of him. You know, let him know who he's messing with."

"You sure your girl's gonna be cool with that?" Puck asks skeptically. "Not that I follow any of that Broadway shit, but I'm pretty sure she and that Jesse kid are about to get hitched any day now, aren't they?"

"They're not, it's all a big PR stunt," Finn groans.

"Look, man, I know you fell pretty hard for that chick, but you can't go kidding yourself into thinking she's—"

"I'm not kidding myself!" Finn snaps. "And Rachel's _not_ marrying Jesse, she only agreed to fake the engagement to keep some fuck-whit blogger from exposing me to the media."

Finn wishes he could bite back the words, his stomach dropping immediately after they've all gone cannonballing off his tongue. Puck's always been suspicious of what exactly he'd done to secure that deal for Sam Evans, but Finn's never openly admitted to anything illegal...until now, that is.

"Holy shit," Puck says, causing Finn to hold his breath nervously. "That chick's fuckin' batty for you, Hudson! Is she out of her mind?"

Finn exhales in relief, although silently wondering why Puck's not grilling him about his professional life instead. "Well, if Rachel's out of her mind, I am too," he admits. "As much as I wish she would've just thrown me under the bus, I know I would've done the exact same thing for her."

"Goddamn, that's some epic shit right here," Puck muses in disbelief. "I think you're _both_ fucking crazy, if you want my opinion."

"No argument there," Finn agrees.

Another pause as Puck exhales in contemplation. His tone is more serious when he speaks up again. "Look, you know I'll do anything to help you out. We both know you've saved my ass in more ways than one...in fact, when you think about it, this whole thing is sort of my fault."

"It isn't," Finn shakes his head. "I've made my choices, and I'm prepared to deal with whatever consequences. But what I sure as hell _can't_ do is sit back and let Jesse get away with the kind of shit he pulled last night."

"What'd he do?" Puck asks, his voice lifting in concern.

"Well, he manhandled Rachel for one thing."

"What the fuck, dude, are you kidding me?"

"No," Finn says, his jaw tightening. "She's got the scars to prove it."

"Jesus Christ, how have you not killed that guy yet?"

"Believe me, I want to," Finn assures him. "But he's in the public eye, and people think he and Rachel are engaged, which makes it a lot harder to go all Braveheart on his face. Besides, the Tony's are a few days away, and it would look sketchy as hell if he showed up on the red carpet with both of his eyes swollen shut. People would know something was up, and it wouldn't be good for Rachel."

"Well, shit," Puck says. "That does complicate things a little."

"Yeah, no kidding," Finn sighs. "And that's not even the half of it."

"What do you mean?"

Finn exhales heavily as he debates whether or not to speak the words on the tip of his tongue. Puck's his best friend; he _has_ to know something's up, and that things aren't completely peachy on his end of the phone line. "I just…" Finn trails off. "Look, I don't know what's going to happen to me, and I...I just need to know that Rachel's going to be looked after…"

"Of course she will be, dude," Puck says sincerely. "And _you're_ gonna be the one doing it."

Finn sighs again, his chest feeling heavy. "I have to tell you something, Puck."

"No, you don't," Puck cuts him off before he can elaborate. "You don't have to tell me anything... _I know_."

"Know what?"

"Enough with the secrecy, dude," Puck chides him. "I know you made some shady deal with Tanaka. I also know that you did it to save my ass as much as your own."

"Puck, I—"

"Relax, you know I'd never rat on you," Puck assures him. "But the Finn Hudson _I_ know will probably end up ratting on _himself_. You've got the guiltiest fuckin' conscience of any guy I ever met. I bet it's probably eating you alive right now, isn't it?"

Finn just breathes unevenly, his silence confirming everything.

"So here's what's going to happen," Puck continues. "Jake and I are gonna go intimidate the panties offa Jesse St. Singalong. After I'm done with _that_ , I'm gonna march right on into Shuester's office and tell him it was _me_ who paid Tanaka to make the Evans deal."

"Puck, no," Finn says urgently.

"Hell yes, Hudson!" Puck insists.

"Puck, forget it, there's no way I'm letting you take the blame for this! You could end up in jail!"

"Pssshh, I've been preparing for that my entire life," Puck scoffs. "It's about time they lock me away for a while. We all know I've got it comin'."

"God, this is so fucked," Finn groans, rubbing his face in exasperation.

"Better me than you, though, right?"

Finn shakes his head, his brow furrowed. "I don't know how you can say that…"

"Well, for one thing, you've got a girl who _clearly_ loves you more than most people love anything," Puck reasons. "And I can tell you feel the exact same about her. It kind of freaks me out, to be honest, but it's also...I don't know, it's pretty cool too, I guess."

Finn breaths steadily for a moment, his head still in his hands. "But Puck, that's not a reason for you to take the rap for something I did. It wouldn't exactly help clear my conscience either—not if I knew you were rotting away in some jail cell because of me."

"And by 'rotting' you mean cracking skulls and lifting weights all day?" Puck retorts. "I'd be fine, dude. I was practically built for that type of shit." He pauses a bit dramatically, then adds, "But _you_ weren't...no offense."

"None taken," Finn mutters.

"Oh, and it might come as some surprise to you, but _I_ actually have a conscience too. You think I wouldn't feel like an absolute piece of shit if you got hauled off to jail instead of me?" He sighs, and Finn can hear the regret in his voice when he adds, "I mean, shit, if I hadn't been putting all that pressure on you to make the Evans deal, this whole thing never would've... _fuck_. I'm sorry, man, I really am."

"S'not your fault," Finn says evenly.

"No, fuck that, it is!" Puck insists. "Now just shut the hell up and accept the fact that I'm taking this bullet for you. Meanwhile, you and your girl are gonna ride off into the sunset or whatever, and that Jesse kid's never gonna give you any trouble ever again. Who knows, maybe I'll see him in jail if he keeps that wife beater shit up."

Finn can't help but grin at the scenario Puck's just laid out for him. He knows it's a lot of big talk and that he's over-simplifying things that are _way_ more complicated than Puck's wanting to imply. Besides, no matter how he tries to spin it, Finn's never going to feel good about his best bro "taking a bullet for him," so to speak. And despite the characteristic bravado in his mohawk-headed friend's words, Finn knows deep down that Puck wants nothing more than to be a better man than his deadbeat of a father ever was. Finn wants that for him too; he always has. He can't allow Puck to just accept that he's destined to be a jailbird, simply because it runs in the family bloodline.

When he hears Rachel moving around inside the apartment, he knows he has to think fast. "Look, man, just promise me you won't do anything right away," Finn urges in a low voice.

Puck takes a moment to mull things over. "Look, I tell you what," Puck begins, "I'm heading into the office soon. If Shuester starts questioning me about the Evans deal again, I might have no choice but to crack."

"Why would Shuester question you about that?" Finn asks confusedly.

"Because he's suspicious as fuck, dude! You falling off the radar these past ten days hasn't exactly helped that fact."

"Look, I'm sorry, but if you're getting the third degree then just go ahead and turn me in already!" Finn insists. "Tell Shuester I made an illegal bargaining deal that you and Jake had nothing to do with. That's the truth of the matter, isn't it?"

"Uh, it's a little late for that, don't you think?"

"What are you talking about?" Finn asks impatiently.

"Look, you said it yourself, your girlfriend's got the Joey's coming up in just a few days."

"The _Tony's_ ," Finn corrects.

"Well, whatever it's called, I know it's super important to Rachel," Puck reasons. "I've seen her perform, I know she was fuckin' born to do that type of shit. I'm sure this award show is what she's been dreaming about her entire her life...it's like her Super Bowl, am I right?"

"Right," Finn sighs. He thinks he knows where Puck is going with this.

"Sooo," Puck implies, "Do you really think _now's_ the best time for you to confess your dirty deeds? I don't know much, but I know that if I were in love with someone, I sure as hell wouldn't want to ruin their Super Bowl for them. That'd be sort of a crime in itself, don't you think?"

Finn runs his hand over his forehead, far too exhausted to bother putting up a fight. He knows Puck's right, at least in the short-term sense. He takes little comfort in that fact, however, and there are still _so many_ larger implications of this mess that he knows are all terribly, terribly wrong. There's no use in trying to talk Puck in or out of anything at this point, obviously; Finn doesn't have the time right now, anyhow. "Look, just...just promise me you won't do anything impulsive. Okay?"

"Look who's talking," Puck chuckles. "But hey, since I'm not in the habit of making promises I can't keep, I'll just go ahead and leave you with this—I promise I got your back, Hudson. Always."

Finn's face is stoic as he nods. "Back at you, man," he says softly. "Look, I gotta go. I'll catch up with you ASAP."

"Yeah, sure thing. Oh, and don't forget to text me St. Panty-Wad's address."

Finn's brow furrows as he rethinks his earlier request. After a moment's contemplation he shakes his head decisively. "Forget it, man. I'll take care of that myself."

"You sure?" Puck asks, sounding disappointed. "I was really looking forward to making that dude squirm."

"I know how you feel," Finn assures him. "But on second thought, I don't want you getting involved in that, bro. Just forget I asked."

"Alright, fine," Puck surrenders. "But if you change your mind, let me know. I can think of a few other guys who'd be more than happy to help scare the big boy pants off that shit-eating bastard. Remember that linebacker I used to represent?"

"James Harrison?" Finn asks, shuddering at the thought. "He's probably a little busy these days, so don't bother. Just sit tight, okay? I'll take care of Jesse."

"Make sure you take care of yourself too, okay?" Puck insists.

"I will, dude," Finn promises, telling his best friend to do the same before he hangs up the phone. He really hopes Rachel decided to take a long shower and hasn't overheard any of his lengthy conversation with Puck.

The sight that greets him when he enters the apartment is one he's not sure he'll ever be able to endure another morning without. Rachel leans against the kitchen counter, her long legs stemming out from under his old McKinley High football jersey, her slightly disheveled hair indicating she's just rolled out of bed. Even better, though, is the smile she directs right at him; he can't help but smile back, feeling the tension leave his body as he allows himself to revel in the perfection standing before him.

"Good morning, sweetheart."

"Hi, babe," he responds, taking slow strides toward her. He greets her with a soft and tender kiss, her lips slightly chapped from sleep and tasting like toothpaste and morning coffee. Who knew he could love that combination of flavors so much?

"Like my outfit?" she asks, winking up at him after their lips have parted.

"You kidding? Hottest thing I've ever seen," he assures her with another peck to her lips. He lifts her up gently, placing her on the counter so she's eye level with him. "How'd you sleep, beautiful?" he asks her, running his hands up and down her bare legs to keep them warm.

A blush creeps up her cheeks as she recalls all the reasons neither of them slept more than three hours last night. "Well, it wasn't exactly a full eight hours," she teases with a grin. "But all in all I'd say it was one of the most restful nights I've had in a long time."

"Funny, me too," he grins back at her, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He cradles her cheek in his palm. "I'm so glad you're here, Rach."

She places her hand over his, her brown eyes deep enough to dive into. "Oh, me too, baby," she breathes. She glances around at the rugged space they're in, smiling in adoration of what she sees. "I know it's crazy, but honestly, there's nowhere else I'd rather be."

He strokes her cheek with his thumb. "I'd be anywhere with you," he assures her, his voice soft and husky in its state of pure vulnerability. The things she does to him…

She surprises him a little as her arms reach around his broad shoulders, pulling him in for a tight embrace. He obliges, of course, smoothing his hands over her petite frame, indulging in the closeness. After a while, though, he feels her clinging to him a bit desperately, making his heart ache. Not wanting their morning full of domesticated bliss to become corrupted just yet, he pulls away from her gently, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before reaching for the nearly empty cup of coffee she poured for herself. "I _know_ you must want more coffee than this," he says, flashing her a light-hearted grin.

She smiles back at him, although a bit weakly, as he retrieves the coffee pot and fills her mug to the brim. "Thank you," she tells him, accepting the warm mug from his hands.

"Kurt took the french press when we moved out of this place," Finn explains, nodding with apologies toward the crappy coffee maker sputtering on the counter.

"No, this is perfectly fine," she assures him, taking a small sip.

"Are you, uh, hungry?" he asks, eager to keep the mood upbeat. "The eggs I made are probably cold by now, but I—"

"But you made bacon," she interrupts, her eyes winking at him over the round brim of her mug.

She's right, he _did_ make bacon. He remembers now as he pivots toward the stove, affectionately taking note of the fact that she'd removed the tray from the oven while he'd been busy chatting with Puck in the hall. And for a _vegan_ , it's pretty impressive that she'd known to take the bacon off the heat at precisely the right time. Has he mentioned how much he loves this girl?

"Oh, thanks, babe!" he exclaims. "I totally would've forgotten about that if you hadn't taken it out of the oven."

"I'm sure the smoke alarm would've reminded you eventually," Rachel teases.

"That's true," he agrees, helping himself to a strip of his all time favorite breakfast meat. It's cooked to perfection, just the way he likes it. "Mmmm...goddamn that's good! I swear, if it were possible to live on bacon alone…"

He notices Rachel eyeing him expectantly. "Well? Aren't you going to share…?"

His brow lifts in surprise. "You want me to share my _bacon_?" he clarifies. She nods eagerly. "It's not tofu bacon, you know. It's like, the _real thing_."

"Thank _God_ ," she responds hungrily. "Now c'mon, Hudson, are you gonna share with me, or what?"

He obliges her request, chuckling in amusement as he piles several strips of bacon onto a plate. "Are you sure about this, Rach?" he asks, a playful smirk on his lips as he approaches her. "I mean, I wouldn't want you pissing off the vegan Gods or anything."

"Screw them," Rachel shrugs, evoking another surprised chuckle out of him as she grabs a crispy strip of meat from the plate, her face contorting in ecstasy as she takes a large bite. "Mmmm, so good!"

Finn can only stand back and enjoy the sight before him, his extremely hot (as well as extremely _vegan_ ) girlfriend allowing the taste of bacon to work her up to near orgasmic heights. "I'm getting a little jealous over here, you know," he jokes, to which she responds with a loud moan.

He's surprised she doesn't bite his fingers off when he reaches for the last piece; he didn't take it for himself anyway, his lips pursing to the side in a devious smirk full of blatant arousal as he holds the delicious strip of meat up to her mouth for her to savor. She holds his gaze as she parts her lips, taking slower, more indulgent bites as he feeds her, her dark eyes expressing a hunger for something more.

Something grabs hold of him as he discards the plate in his hands, nearly breaking it as their mouths collide in a smoldering kiss. Every inch of him comes alive, his hands groping for any part of her he can reach, their tongues twisting and tangling in a fever pitch. He doesn't know what's come over them, but he has a feeling the impassioned urgency in their movements is driven by a force much stronger than the delicious breakfast meat they've just enjoyed (although granted bacon has always been sort of a turn-on for him too, glad he's not the only one!).

Rachel pulls at his hair, her voice pleading as she moans his name between kisses, and he can tell she wants, _needs_ more. He needs more too, _so much more_ of what he knows he'll never get enough of, and if this kitchen counter weren't one of the few things harder than his groin right now, he'd simply ease her onto her back and take her right there. Instead he lifts her up, keeping their mouths fused together as her legs wrap around his waist. At least in this case, the lack of walls separating the kitchen from the bedroom is a good thing; he'd probably crash straight through any wall that was in his way, leaving a Finn and Rachel shaped hole in the middle of it.

Their bodies connect instantly after her back hits the mattress, and he's certain that what transmutes between the two of them could set entire cities on fire with its intensity. And in fact he's surprised, once he's regained awareness of his worldly surroundings, to find the apartment isn't literally smoking in the aftermath.

He doesn't really want to know what time it is as they lay quietly together, imprinting themselves permanently into the bedsheets like names carved into a tree. Rachel's phone keeps lighting up on the table beside them, but she's yet to lift her head from his chest to see what the world wants from her.

"Rach…" he whispers, his eyelids heavy as he lightly strokes her back.

"Mmm?" she murmurs in response. She's been drifting in and out of sleep for quite some time.

"Your phone's going crazy," he informs her. It's not that he's in any hurry to get rid of her, but he doesn't want her oversleeping and missing something important. He knows she doesn't want that either.

"It's probably just Viola," she says through a yawn. "I have a fitting for the Tony's later this afternoon. Everyone else can bite me."

He chuckles lightly, dropping a kiss to her hair. "You can come back here, you know...I mean tonight, after the show. You were right, it is sort of fun just hiding out here together." Her silence makes him look down at her in question. "Rach?"

"Finn, how long were you planning on staying here?" she asks him.

"Um, I'm not sure," he answers vaguely. "I just came out here to get away from everything for a while, but I...I never really had a plan."

Another moment of silence before she shifts on the bed, positioning herself to the side of him and looking him thoughtfully in the eyes. "You know, Kurt and I had a long talk about you. He helped me to better understand a few things...mostly things I already knew, like what a great man you are, and how you've always been selfless, and a leader. You're the kind of man who could never function properly with something immoral weighing on his conscience. I know you feel very conflicted about what you did, Finn...and we both know _I'm_ selfish, which means I want you with me always, regardless of what moral dilemma is tearing you apart on the inside." She pauses, her breath hitching in her throat before she continues, "But I can't be selfish this time. I have to step back and allow you to do whatever _you_ feel is necessary to make this right...I want you to listen to your conscience over me, Finn. Even though we both know I'm probably _much_ louder."

He can't but chuckle softly, his eyes glazed with a deep, deep affection for his girl. There's no possible way he can ever be without her, and it occurs to him that perhaps she's got him all wrong, Kurt too, Puck also; he's not some do-gooder with a guilty conscience. If that were true he would've come clean to Shuester long ago, and the fact that Puck's possibly across town taking the bullet for him right now just confirms that he was never _that_ conflicted when it came to compromising his own personal moral code. The only thing that's ever truly been a dilemma for him all along was the thought of being apart from the woman he loves.

"I love you, Rachel," he breathes, staring intensely into her eyes. "But I think you might be overestimating me just a little. I may have a guilty conscience, but nothing's ever going to feel 'right' if it means being away from you."

She searches his face for sincerity, finding it in every fiber of his being as a loud sob slash laugh erupts from her throat. She throws her arms around him in relief. "Oh Finn, thank God!" she cries. "I lied, Finn, your conscience can go to hell if it's telling you to turn yourself in."

"It's not, baby, it's not," he assures her. "I wouldn't listen to it if it was."

"Oh Finn," she sighs again, embracing him tighter. "I couldn't possibly be away from you either, not a chance! We're going to be so happy together, baby, just you and me. I promise I won't let—"

"Shhhh!" Finn whispers suddenly, pressing his fingers to her lips to silence her. Rachel's brow furrows in confusion, her confusion giving way to panic as her wide eyes flash toward the closed door. She hears it too, the sound of footsteps making their way closer and closer to this private place they've been nestled in the safety of all morning long.

Finn is on full alert as he sits up slowly, motioning for Rachel to stay where she is. She nods a bit hesitantly, her body stiff with anxiety as she pulls the sheets tighter around tiny frame. His face is tense with concern despite the reassuring smile he attempts to offer her as he throws on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He crosses the room in hurried strides, the sound of masculine voices now rumbling in concert with the vastly approaching footsteps. He's not expecting company, and he knows the chances of anyone stumbling upon this grimey, nondescript building by accident are slim to none.

He reaches the door just as a loud knock raps against it. His heart hammers as he casts a quick glance over his shoulder at Rachel, only to find she's disappeared from view. He figures it's for the best, as she's more than likely the reason these uninvited guests are here. Another knock, this time followed by a booming voice shouting, "Open up! Police!"

Finn's seen enough cop shows to know he has rights in a situation like this (not that he's ever been in one before). He also knows that cops are a persistent bunch, and that this thing will go a whole lot smoother if he opens the door himself instead of waiting for them to break it down. He takes a deep breath before pulling the door aside, bringing him face to face with two intimidating cops...and Jesse St. James.

"Can I help you?" he asks, keeping his voice low and steady.

"Are you Finn Hudson?" the cop on the right asks gruffly.

"Yeah, that's me."

"I'm Officer Horowitz and this is my partner, Officer Bends. Mr. St. James here has been trying to locate his fiancee, Rachel Berry," the cop named Horowitz says, nodding towards Jesse. "We have reason to believe that _you_ , Mr. Hudson, may have seen her last."

Finn's eyes flicker over to Jesse. He stands off to the side, satisfaction playing all over his face as he watches the situation unfolding. Finn's jaw tightens, his eyes shifting to meet the cop's interrogating stares once again. "Is there a reason why my seeing Rachel Berry would be a cause for concern?" he asks, determined to stand his ground. He knows Rachel hasn't been "missing" long enough to be considered M.I.A. This whole thing would be a little ridiculous even Jesse _wasn't_ full of complete shit.

"Step aside, Mr. Hudson," Horowitz says shortly.

"You got a warrant?" Finn asks, not budging.

"I'm afraid we don't need one, not when Mr. St. James has reason to believe that Ms. Berry is in danger."

"What?" Finn scoffs, shooting Jesse a menacing glare. "What the fuck did you say to them?"

"Mr. Hudson, you need to remain calm," Horowitz warns him.

"No, I don't think so," Finn resists, pointing his finger at Jesse. "Look, the only way Rachel would be in danger is if she were alone with _him!_ "

"As you can see, Officers," Jesse cuts in, his voice full confidence thanks to the two burly cops defending him, "This man is clearly prone to volatile behavior. He's apparently deranged as well. Suggesting that _I_ would compromise the safety of my own fiancee? It's pure madness!"

"Alright, that's enough out of you, St. James," Horowitz silences Jesse. Meanwhile Finn is seething with outrage as both cops order him to step aside once again, threatening to restrain him if he doesn't.

"Finn?" Rachel's concerned voice speaks from inside the apartment.

Finn turns to look at her, both cops seizing the opportunity to push past him, entering the apartment before he can protest. "Are you Rachel Berry?" Horowitz asks in a firm tone.

"Yes," Rachel answers uncomfortably, folding her arms across her chest.

"Ms. Berry, how long have you been at this apartment with Mr. Hudson?"

"I…" Rachel trails off, clearly rendered speechless as she struggles to grasp what's even going on here.

"It's okay, Rach, you don't have to explain anything to them," Finn assures her, approaching her side.

"Mr. Hudson, I believe I asked Ms. Berry a question," Horowitz admonishes him.

Finn bites his tongue, exhaling in frustration as he glares back at the two cops interrogating Rachel.

"Finn and I arrived here late last night," Rachel answers, sounding more confident this time.

"So you're cheatin' on Jesse?" Officer Bends, the shorter, stockier of the two cops asks. Finn gathers by his overly intrigued expression that he's a follower of the Broadway blogs.

"I fail to see how this is any of your concern," Rachel states firmly.

"Yeah, what are you guys, the gossip police?" Finn snaps.

"Hudson, I'm warning you—"

"Well, well, well, just as I suspected," Jesse's arrogant tone interjects, causing all four of them to turn their attention towards the door he's just sauntered through.

"Jesse," Rachel gasps.

"I really can't believe you, Rachel," he shakes his head, feigning shock and betrayal despite the triumph in his eyes. "What, did you think I wouldn't find out about your torrid little affair?"

"We'll handle the interrogation, St. James," Horowitz silences Jesse once again.

"I'm sorry, _what_ interrogation?" Rachel questions. "While I agree that infidelity is wrong, I hardly think it's in the interest of the police to go meddling in other people's love lives."

"You have a point, Ms. Berry, however that's not the reason your fiance called for our assistance," Horowitz explains.

"Yeah, well I think it's obvious I haven't hurt Rachel in any way, so why don't you take your assistance elsewhere?" Finn cuts in, unable to hold his tongue any longer.

"Hudson, I'm warning you for the last time to keep your trap shut!"

"Wait, what on earth are you talking about?" Rachel demands, her eyes wide with confusion. "Finn wouldn't hurt me, why would you even—"

"Hey, what's that on your wrist?" Jesse questions, his eyes fixated on the scars tainting Rachel's delicate skin as if he were noticing them for the first time.

It's all Finn can do not to lunge right at him, his insides pulsating with rage over what Jesse's implying. "You son of a bitch!" he seethes, and he can tell the cops are just seconds from restraining him as they both warn him to remain calm.

"You know _exactly_ what happened to my wrist, Jesse," Rachel states coldly, clearly appalled by her co-star's attempt to paint Finn as the abusive one. It's truly a new low, even for him.

"You're not getting away with this, you lying little shit," Finn growls, his eyes ablaze as he glares menacingly across the room at a perfectly calm-looking Jesse. It's evident by his nonchalance, along with the blatant amusement in his eyes, that this whole thing is unfolding exactly according to plan.

"As you can see, Officers, this man is clearly temperamental and dangerous," Jesse states in a patronizing tone. "Not only that, but he appears to have unleashed some of that aggression onto Rachel, which is precisely what I feared the most."

"That's not true, Officers, and I can prove it!" Rachel exclaims.

"I'd love to see you try," Jesse mutters.

"Alright, all of you shut up!" Horowitz orders. "Ms. Berry, please explain how you got those marks around your wrist?"

Rachel fidgets uncomfortably, and Finn knows she doesn't want to do this; she never intended on exposing Jesse's aggression towards her, not wanting that type of scandal to blow up in the public eye. The bastard brought it on himself, however, and now she has no choice.

"Tell them, Rach," Finn urges, earning him a warning look from both cops.

"I…" she begins, her voice soft but steady. Meanwhile Jesse's confidence has barely wavered; and to be fair, he has done a superb job of making Finn look like a hot-headed goon, the one far less likely to receive the benefit of the doubt in a scenario like this. Rachel meets his firm but supportive gaze for a moment before turning to face the two cops, a decisiveness about her as she reveals, "Mr. St. James inflicted injury upon my wrist at exactly 7:26 p.m. the previous night."

Jesse scoffs immediately, and Finn admits he's a bit confused as to how she could know precisely when the incident occurred. He just hopes she's playing her cards right, and a quick glance over at Jesse squirming uncomfortably helps reassure him that she's doing exactly that.

"Well, this is just comical!" Jesse exclaims, trying to appear unfazed. "As if there's any way to prove that I—"

"Can it, St. James!" Horowitz bellows, turning his attention back to Rachel. "Ms. Berry, please elaborate."

"I'd be happy to, Officer, if I could just retrieve my phone from the bathroom?" Rachel asks.

"Is it relevant to this particular incident?"

"Yes, yes it is," Rachel nods affirmatively.

"Alright, go ahead," Horowitz allows, nodding at Officer Bends to accompany her to the only room in the apartment enclosed by four walls. Bends complies, following Rachel across the wide-open space, and Finn can't help but notice that this guy is clearly starstruck to be in her presence. So much for _Jesse_ being the golden child in this scenario.

Speaking of which, he can feel Jesse's eyes burning into him as Rachel disappears momentarily, this sudden turn of events clearly unnerving him in ways he hadn't accounted for. His whole plan has backfired on him, or is about to, as Rachel reemerges from the bathroom, phone in hand, looking perfectly poised and self-assured despite Jesse's efforts to paint her as a liar and a tramp. Finn's unsure of exactly what kind of evidence she's about to present to the two cops, but something tells him it's damaging enough to bury Jesse on the spot.

"Officers, you may already be aware that Jesse and I attended a party last night," Rachel begins. "It was somewhat of a lavish affair, with several members of the media in attendance. One particular journalist happened to capture a rather startling photo. That journalist was kind enough to text that photo to me this morning, and I have it right here for you to see."

She holds her phone up, and Finn's jaw drops. Sure enough, the image on the screen depicts an enraged-looking Jesse, his hand clenching Rachel's tiny wrist as if he had every intention of snapping it in two. Meanwhile Rachel's eyes tell the story of a woman desperate to escape the man holding her captive by his side, knowing she's powerless to do so without causing a scene. It's a disturbing image, no doubt, and Finn couldn't be more grateful to the photographer who managed to catch Jesse in the act.

"I'll be damned," Horowitz muses, unable to deny the correlation. The evidence is clear as day, and Finn just hopes it's enough to end any further speculation as to where those deep scars around Rachel's wrist came from.

"Well, th-this is obviously a contrived effort on Rachel's part," Jesse stammers, his confidence hanging by a very thin thread. "How convenient that someone just so _happened_ to capture such an unflattering image of me."

"Shut it, St. James!" Horowitz orders. "Ms. Berry, why do you have this image on your phone?"

"I received it from a journalist by the name of Stella Woodward," Rachel explains. "She contacted me early this morning out of concern for my well being. She found Jesse's behavior disturbing and plans to further investigate the incident, with or without my consent."

Jesse scoffs loudly. "Oh please, you hired that journalist, Rachel, just admit it!"

"I'm afraid that wouldn't help your case even it were true," Horowitz shuts Jesse down yet again, and Finn breathes a sigh of relief that things have definitely shifted in Rachel's favor. "This photograph clearly shows you inflicting harm upon Ms. Berry, so I'm afraid you're the one we're going to have to take down to the station for some questioning."

Finn can't contain his full-blown grin as he watches the two cops descend upon a completely stunned and stupefied-looking Jesse. When he tries to catch Rachel's gaze, however, he finds her eyes tinged with worry rather than triumph.

"This is preposterous!" Jesse stammers, clearly feeling the walls closing in on him. "I mean just look at these two!" he gestures toward Finn and Rachel with disgust. "Rachel here is an adulteress, screwing another man in some decrepit shack in Brooklyn. It's deplorable!"

"Sorry, buddy, not our concern," Horowitz says dismissively, reaching for his handcuffs.

"Officers," Rachel says timidly, taking a step forward. "Being that Jesse and I are both public figures, I would really prefer that this incident be kept private."

"Trust me, Ms. Berry, there's no paparazzi within miles of this place."

"Yes, but police reports are public record," Rachel argues. "And, well, being that the public presumes Jesse and I to be a happily engaged couple, this incident is bound to cause quite a stir. The Tony Awards are just days away, and I would really hate to be at the center of a domestic violence scandal at a time like this."

The look of relief that crosses Jesse's features makes Finn's stomach twist in disgust. "Rachel," he says, his tone discouraging. He knows the timing couldn't be worse, but she can't let Jesse off the hook for this; he won't allow it, and he has a feeling the cops won't either.

"It's okay, Finn," she assures him with a glance over her shoulder.

"I'm not sure what you're getting at, Ms. Berry," Horowitz says. "We have an obligation to intervene under circumstances like this. It's for your own safety."

"Yes, I realize that, Officer, but I just thought that perhaps you could _postpone_ what you're doing to Jesse, just for another week or so?" Rachel asks, refusing to back down. She's being awfully bold right now, and Finn can't help but realize how important this is to her.

Horowitz glances over at his partner, his brow furrowed, then shakes his head. "I'm sorry, we don't do that," he answers shortly, and Rachel stammers helplessly for another moment before Finn interjects.

"Hey, how 'bout those Jets?" he exclaims out of nowhere. Everyone turns to look at him in question. "They've uh, been training pretty hard in the off-season. I think they might actually have a shot at being contenders this year," he fumbles awkwardly, hoping at least one of the cops takes the bait.

"Well, screw them," Horowitz grumbles. "I'm a Giants fan all the way."

Finn smirks in relief. He's always known that a surefire way to divert someone's attention is to praise their rival team. "Is that so?" he asks. "Well, as much as I hate those bastards, I'd be happy to score you some season tickets."

"Season tickets? You mean to The _Giants_?" Horowitz gapes, obviously intrigued.

"Sure," Finn shrugs. "I work in sports management, so it'd be no problem." He tries to be as vague as possible, not needing either of these cops prying into his professional life at the moment.

"Oh it's no problem, huh?" the cop mocks in disbelief. "And I don't suppose you want anything in exchange for your generosity?"

"Do this again in a week," Finn states. "I want Jesse to be punished for what he did, but I don't want the biggest night of Rachel's career to be tainted by a scandal. Like you said, there's no paparazzi around, no one even needs to know you were here."

"Damn," Horowitz muses under his breath, the conflict evident in his face.

Meanwhile Officer Bends just shrugs indifferently. "Not much of a football fan myself," he admits.

"Well, I can get you theatre tickets!" Rachel chimes in. Officer Bends' brow lifts in surprise. She must've noticed his starstruck gaze, and seized the opportunity. "Any show you want, just name it!"

"God, my wife would love that. We're both big fans of yours, Ms. Berry. We're rooting for you to win that Tony."

Finn sees Jesse rolling his eyes as Rachel blushes at the praise. This is going better than expected, and it seems he and Rachel are pretty close to getting both these guys on board. They make a great team, even in as bizarre a scenario as this. "Thank you _so much_ , your support means everything," Rachel says graciously. "I'd be more than happy to sign an autograph for your wife. I think I have some headshots in my bag, as a matter of fact!"

"Gee, that'd be just great," Bends grins, his eyes wide with awe and appreciation for Rachel's generosity. Finn knows this guy's _definitely_ sold; his partner on the other hand, still seems reluctant to take Finn up on his offer.

"I don't know, this seems pretty damn unethical," Horowitz shakes his head.

"It is," Bends shrugs. "But really, who's gonna know? I say we postpone this whole thing another week, after Ms. Berry's won her award, and then we take care of business."

"So you're suggesting we schedule a time and a place to arrest Mr. St. James?" Horowitz asks.

"Or I could turn myself in," Jesse offers. Everyone turns to look at him skeptically. "I really am sorry for what I did to Rachel. It was an isolated incident that I take full responsibility for. In the future, I hope to use this low point in my career as an opportunity to inspire others."

Finn scoffs, Jesse's words sounding as phony as if he'd read them off a teleprompter. Fortunately, the cops don't appear to be buying it either. "No wonder you didn't get a Tony nod," Bends eyes Jesse in disbelief. Finn nearly coughs to keep from laughing right out loud.

"Alright, fine," Horowitz gives in. "We'll postpone Mr. St. James' arrest until _after_ the song and dance awards."

"You don't know how much I appreciate this, Officers, thank you," Rachel gushes.

"Yeah, yeah," Horowitz dismisses, then looks accusingly at Finn. "I better get my season tickets, Hudson, or we're gonna have a problem."

"You will," Finn assures him with a grin. If there's one thing he's never doubted, it's his ability to obtain tickets to just about any major sporting event in America. Being a successful sports agent for the past several years has helped grant him that privilege. Who knew it would come in handy in a situation like this?

Rachel is perfectly graceful as she autographs two headshots for the awe-struck cop, sending him on his way with a charming smile and a promise to coordinate the most fantastic night at the theatre imaginable for him and his wife. Meanwhile Jesse just grumbles bitterly, the two cops he'd enlisted to incriminate Finn instead keeping a close eye on _him_ as he makes his way out the door. He imagines that's going to be one hell of an awkward car ride back to wherever Jesse came from, but Finn knows the bastard brought it on himself.

Rachel's clearly overcome with relief, and the grateful smile she offers him once they're finally alone in the apartment makes his heart double in size. It's still a screwed-up situation they're in, _far more_ screwed up than it should be, at least where Rachel's concerned; for now, though, he just wants to ensure that her magical night at the Tony's be kept drama-free. He doesn't think Jesse will give her anymore trouble, not with two cops and a journalist on his case. It would be fruitless for him to try and launch any sort of counter-attack against her in the coming week, although Finn wouldn't put anything past him. He'll deal with that later, though...just like everything else.

* * *

 **TO BE CONTINUED...**


	14. Don't Worry Baby

**Hi friends- I decided to post the finale in 3 shorter parts. I think it'll be more readable that way (or not, lol).**

 **Thank you so much to those still following this story. Please enjoy :)**

* * *

"Oh it's just stunning, Viola," Rachel breathes, barely able to grasp the fact that she's being fitted for a dress to wear to the _Tony Awards_ just hours after what transpired at Finn's apartment that morning. Of course, with three full-length mirrors reflecting the shimmering gold gown she's currently dressed up in, it's nearly impossible to focus on anything but her girlhood dreams manifesting right before her very eyes.

"Yes, my dear, you're a star, you need to shine bright," Viola nods, standing back to assess Rachel's frame from all angles. "We'll need to take it in a little in the hips, but other than that, I believe it's a damn near perfect fit."

"It feels perfect," Rachel agrees.

"Yes, and we'll be sure to go light on the accessories," Viola adds, meeting Rachel's eyes in the mirror. "Wouldn't want to distract from that blinding engagement ring, now would we?"

The woman smirks knowingly as Rachel shudders in disgust. "Please, I would love to divert attention from it at all costs."

Viola nods, already figuring that to be the case. "Well, that's no problem. We'll just use a few other pieces strategically to offset it. It will appear somewhat gaudy and Kardashian of you, but in this case I'd say that's actually better than the alternative."

Rachel's ever grateful for Viola's shrewd tactics as her eyes fall with distaste upon the ring decorating her finger. Who would've thought she could actually loathe the sight of such a beautiful diamond accessory? And while it's certainly enviable as far as engagement rings go, she'd gladly wear something made out of cheap plastic if it symbolized her love for the man she _actually_ desires to commit the rest of her life to. She'd had to force herself to put the thing on before hastily leaving Finn's apartment just over an hour ago. Of course Finn had understood, knowing she needed to keep up appearances for the time being.

Meanwhile she's yet to see any signs of Jesse since arriving at the theatre not long ago. She knows he's technically a free man, despite the fact that two cops plan to arrest him for assault within the coming week. In the meantime, Jesse's all but powerless to do much of anything to her without creating more trouble for himself; still, she doesn't doubt he's off somewhere formulating a plan to weasel himself out of this whole thing. The chances of him doing so are slim to none, and yet she's unable to rest easy. She imagines his contempt for her must be at an all-time high, and it's anyone's guess as to how the two of them are going to look posing side by side one another on the red carpet.

Even more unnerving is the fact that they still have a show to put on tonight! She wonders if perhaps he'll call in sick, but doubts Artie would allow an understudy to take his place, not when the show's in the spotlight this week due to the upcoming Tony's. The convolutedness of it all makes her grimace and groan, causing Viola to look up at her in question.

"What's this?" she asks in a serious tone, and Rachel realizes it's her scarred wrist drawing Viola's attention. As usual, the savvy older woman knows the gist of the story without Rachel needing to tell it. And while normally she'd be amused, _intrigued_ , even, by the internal disfunctions of show business, in this case her face is creased with none other than deep concern.

"It's taken care of, Viola. Don't worry," Rachel says, smiling weakly.

But Viola looks unconvinced, her brow furrowing even harder. "I have a lot of clout in this business, you know. I can bad mouth him all over town, see to it that he never works again."

"I appreciate you looking out for me," Rachel assures her. She knows she has a strong ally in Viola; the woman could be ruthless when she wanted to. Regardless, she's more than certain this whole incident will leave a permanent stain on Jesse's career and reputation. It's well deserved, she knows it, and yet despite her current and very real animosity towards him, she doesn't actually wish him _that_ much harm, at least not in the long term. She has no desire to seek vengeance against him; she only wants him out of her and Finn's life as soon as humanly possible.

Viola continues going about her business dutifully, handling Rachel's wrist with care as she decides upon a set of bracelets to divert attention from her eye-catching scars. They both know the show must go on, despite the real-life horror show unfolding behind the curtains.

* * *

She approaches her dressing room in lengthy strides, hoping to steal a few moments of solitude to gather her thoughts before the usual pre-show chaos ensues. By now she's earned enough prestige to have patented her own "don't bother me" look, and the cast and crew knows better than to approach her with any frivolous concerns.

"Hi Rachel," a masculine voice stops her in her tracks, the casual lack of urgency in his tone managing to draw her attention.

"Oh, hello," she greets him, surprised to see the blonde-headed football player leaning against the wall in the narrow hallway. "It's lovely to see you, Sam. How've you been?"

"Good, thanks. How 'bout you?"

"Oh, fine, fine," she answers with a smile, the athlete's presence both unnerving and intriguing her all at once. The fact that he's Finn's client would make her feel akin to him under any circumstances; given what she knows about the "Evans deal," however, she's particularly conscious of wanting to appear overtly charming and hospitable towards this man, as if she were doing so on Finn's behalf. "So, you're seeing the show tonight, I take it?"

"Yep," Sam nods. "Just thought I'd drop by and surprise Mercedes. She's getting fitted for her Tony's dress right now."

Rachel recalls Mercedes waiting impatiently outside Viola's door when she made her exit. As usual, they'd exchanged expressions of mutual aloofness, implying they merely tolerated one another's existences. "Oh, well that's very sweet of you to show your support. I'm sure she appreciates it."

"Yeah, I'm trying to do more of that," Sam shrugs. "Showing my support, I mean. I owe it to her after all she's done for me."

"Well, I imagine you'll be able to attend lots more shows now that you've committed to playing with the New York Giants." She bites her tongue, wondering if she's just said too much. She doesn't follow sports enough to know whether Sam's impending contract with The Giants is public knowledge or not. Sam seems unaffected, fortunately, although her words appear to have troubled him for other, more personal reasons.

"Yeah, I just...I don't know, sometimes I wish I would've accepted that offer to play for the Oakland Raiders instead."

"Oh r-really?" she asks, now more intrigued than ever. She doesn't think there's any significance to Sam Evans venting to _her_ of all people; if anything she's simply a neutral party who happened to catch him at a particularly truth-sharing moment. She wants him to share more, sensing there might be something to this, some little tidbit of information that could change the course of this entire twisted saga.

"Yeah, I mean it's California for one thing," Sam continues. "Plus Mercedes has always dreamed of going out to Hollywood and pursuing a movie career. She doesn't like to admit it, but that's where her real passion lies."

Rachel clears her throat and straightens her posture, trying to appear unfazed despite the wheels spinning like mad inside her head. "Well, you'd never know it, would you? I mean considering what an advocate she was for you playing with The Giants. She seriously could double as your agent!"

Sam chuckles fondly at the thought of his sharp-tongued spitfire of a wife. "Well, The Giants are a New York team which means more money, more prestige, more of the spotlight...at least for _me_ , that is." He trails off, sighing wistfully. "I just want her to have some of that too. She deserves it...then again, even if she did go out to Hollywood, it's hard to imagine they'd even know how to handle her."

"Why do you say that?" Rachel asks, already catching his drift.

"Well, when it comes to Hollywood standards, my girl doesn't exactly fit the mold. She auditioned for a movie a couple years ago and got rejected based on appearance. I guess the studio executives were worried about causing a sex riot in the theatres," he adds with a shake of his head. "But still, I just know that if the right role presented itself, she'd be a superstar in a heartbeat, no question."

Rachel nods empathetically, the words taking shape on the tip of her tongue threatening to come tumbling out at any moment. She bites them back, however, needing to pick Sam's brain a bit further before jumping to the premature conclusion that she may have just cracked the code to wiping Finn's hands clean of this entire thing.

She notices Sam's eyes have dropped to the floor, his thoughts faraway, conflicted, even regretful. Stepping into full-on performance mode, she loosens her posture a bit, allowing a light, airy chuckle to bubble from her throat. "Sam, you'll have to excuse my ignorance when it comes to this sort of thing—after all, my knowledge of football consists of the notion that there are actual _feet_ involved in the process. But is there any way that you could perhaps, I don't know... _pass_ on signing a contract with The Giants and decide to play for The Raiders instead? Such a silly question, I know."

She adopts a look of innocent curiosity as his eyes lift to meet hers. He shrugs, nodding his head from side to side. "Well, nothing's been finalized yet...so yeah, I guess technically it's _possible_."

"Well, there you go," Rachel offers.

"I mean I'm sure I'd be fined for opting out of a contract at the last minute," Sam ponders.

Rachel gives another light-hearted chuckle. "Yes, but what's a few measly dollars compared to the millions you're sure to make in the long term?" And again she bites her tongue, worried her persuasive tactics are showing through. Meanwhile, Sam appears to be seriously mulling over the idea she so "innocently" sparked within him.

"That's true," Sam nods. "New York would hate my guts for ditching them, but that just makes for a more exciting game, doesn't it? Besides, Oakland's got nothing but a 5th round draft-pick for a starting quarterback—I'm sure they'd still welcome me with open arms."

"Yes, yes of course! And just think, you and Mercedes would _both_ be living your dreams out in California!" she exclaims, not bothering to suppress her inexplicably over the top enthusiasm for Mr. and Mrs. Evans' future career prospects.

"Plus you'd have one less diva to share the stage with," Sam smirks knowingly.

Her smile falters slightly, quickly reestablishing itself once she remembers why her insides have been doing cartwheels throughout this completely random, and yet completely _enlightening_ conversation with Sam Evans. By now the words are in colorful neon lights, flashing in the eye of her mind as she retrieves them one by one.

" _Two words: Victor Vasquez," Santana said._

" _...He wants the cast to be diverse, and he says he'll only give me the role of Anita Gunn if I can find him another ethnic-looking actress who can sing…"_

" _You know, if it were up to me I wouldn't be here at all," Victor Vasquez stated bluntly. "Although your look is exotic and your talent exceptional, I myself had a woman of a more_ _ **urban persuasion**_ _in mind for this role...perhaps with a curvier, more voluptuous figure as well—the kind that more of America's population relates to."_

Her memory is conveniently sharp as a tack as she thinks back to that night Victor Vasquez paid a visit to her dressing room. It was the same night Mercedes felt a scratchiness in her throat just minutes before showtime, refusing to go on stage and risk her voice cracking in the middle of her solo. Her understudy had gone on in her place, and Victor hadn't seen her. _Victor hadn't seen the actress who perfectly fit_ _ **HIS**_ _mold, regardless of whether or not she fit Hollywood's!_

She must look like a thousand light bulbs have just switched on inside her head as she hears Sam give an embarrassed chuckle, breaking her ninety mile an hour train of thought. "God Rachel, I really am sorry for dumping all this on you," he says, suddenly aware of what he's been doing all this time—pouring his heart out to an actress who's due on stage in less than an hour.

"Oh it's no trouble at all, _believe me_ ," she assures him with a bright smile. That same smile she directs toward Mercedes, who's just rounded the corner. Her expression fails to mirror Rachel's as she regards the sight of her rival co-star chatting up her husband with a wary, unamused glare.

"Why the hell are you smiling at me like that, Streisandwich?" Mercedes deadpans.

"Because, Mercedes, you're a star in the making!" Rachel exclaims as though it were obvious. "You've got such a bright future awaiting you, one can't help but bask in the excitement that's sure to come!"

Mercedes eyes her skeptically a moment longer, then shakes her head in irritation. "You better stay out of my weave tonight, Barbra," she mutters, motioning for Sam to follow her as she walks off down the hall.

Sam follows dutifully, but not before glancing over his shoulder to flash Rachel an appreciative grin. Rachel smiles softly to herself as she watches them go. If only Mercedes knew she was about to put in a call to one of the hottest directors in Hollywood (or at least the _mistress_ of said director) on her behalf. First, though, she fires off a quick text to Finn.

 **Don't worry, baby :)**

* * *

"Rachel! Rach, wake up…"

She groans, feeling the mattress sag and creak beside her, almost as if someone were jumping up and down upon it. She thought she'd very politely asked that Finn not wake her up before ten a.m. this morning; in fact, she remembers exactly how "polite" she'd been just before drifting off beside him the night before. She has a thousand things on her agenda today, including a press conference with the international media, and she'll be screwed sideways if she doesn't sleep away the bags under her eyes before stepping into the limelight once again.

She finally cracks an eye open once it's clear Finn's not going to let her rest. Gazing up at him through foggy vision she sees him standing—literally _standing_ over her on the bed, his bright-faced grin making her forget her irritation with him (because how could it not?)

Her voice is scratchy when she asks what's going on.

"Rach, you'll never believe what happened!" Finn gushes, and she right away understands how it'd be impossible for him to do anything _but_ jump on the bed at a time like this. "Sam opted out of his contract with The Giants. It's all over, Rach, I'm free! _We're_ free."

And she's certain the joy lighting her up from within is infinitely more rejuvenating than any good night's sleep she could've gotten.

* * *

But of course there's still the matter of Jacob's audio tape, the one he's been blackmailing her with all along. Rachel hasn't forgotten that pesky little detail.

Lucky for her, though, Santana hasn't either.

It's fresh in her mind as she enters Jacob's leery apartment in Greenwich Village, knowing full well that if she were watching herself in a movie she'd be shouting, You crazy bitch, you 'bout to die! (in Spanish, of course). In this case, however, she has a plan.

The decor of Jacob's place is strictly serial killer chic, just as one would expect. It's easy to see he'd blackmailed Rachel for reasons other than journalistic; his obsession with her has been years in the making, judging by the newspaper clippings from her college theatre productions as well as personal photos printed from social media decorating his walls everywhere she looks. Clearly the idea of controlling Rachel Berry is utterly enthralling to him.

That was all going to end today, provided things went according to plan. And they would, of course, because her tactics almost never failed her, at least when it came to men. Woman were a bit harder to crack, probably because they intrigued her all the more.

But she's an undisputed expert at manipulating the male species, and finds the process easy, a basic formula that produces almost instantaneous results.

Jacob is no exception, of course. He's a virgin if Santana ever saw one, and the depraved hunger in his eyes assures her he'd gladly sell his soul to whatever Jewish God he prayed to for the chance to touch a woman not related to him by blood.

In fact, she's fairly certain he'd have taken the bait even if she were his cousin.

Shudder...

She's repulsed enough as it is. Thankfully, this wasn't likely to approach even PG-13 levels of seduction. As soon as she gets what she wants she'll be out of this stalker's paradise and taking however many mental baths are necessary to forget she was ever here in the first place.

Jacob didn't ask a single follow-up question over the phone when she offered to pay a visit to his humble (read: creepy) abode, claiming she had some exclusive dirt on his favorite Broadway power couple that she'd prefer to discuss with him "in person, if at all possible." Not surprisingly, all of his journalistic tactics went out the window the second her husky, persuasive tone met his ears. Perhaps if she'd given him more notice he'd have thought to clean the place up a bit—make it look a little less like a scene from _Law & Order: the One Where They Investigate the Murder of Broadway Starlet Rachel Berry_.

More than likely he was so unaccustomed to having any visitors at all, particularly female ones, that the thought never entered his mind.

"Nice place you got here," she comments, not even bothering to disguise the discomfort in her tone or body language. It clearly goes unnoticed by Jew Fro, who eyes her like a teenage boy about to lose his virginity to the hottest girl in school. Which is pretty close to what he at least _thinks_ is about to happen. He doesn't have a chance in hell, of course, but leading him to believe he does is what keeps him eating out the palm of her hand.

She asks for a cup of black coffee, claiming it was like truth serum to her. He hops to it without question, allowing her several minutes alone to scour the apartment in search of what she came for. This isn't the 90's, obviously; she knows she's unlikely to stumble upon a cassette tape labelled "Rachel Berry Confessing to Boyfriend's Dirty Deeds."

This day in age, the only way to delete something permanently is to make it so the "thing" never happened in the first place.

She's a bit stumped as to how to go about doing that as Jacob returns from the kitchen. "Oh. Thanks," she says, accepting the coffee he offers her. It looks worse than office coffee; fresh out of the microwave, the undissolved grounds swimming in murky, tepid water. It's undrinkable, and yet _clearly_ a grand gesture on his part. The pasty face looks as if he's waiting for her to drop her panties in gratitude. One step closer and she'll make him taste his own shitty excuse for a breakfast blend...taste it up his nose and in his eyes, that is. _No me gusta._

"If I haven't said already, Ms. Lopez...you enchant me."

 _Yech_. If she weren't gay already she'd be _all the way that way_ after a remark like that. It was time to get down to business and then get the fuck on out.

"Look, um...before I start spilling my truth tea on one Miss Rachel Berry—"

"Rachel Berry," he interrupts, the name putting him in an almost trance-like state. "You know Rachel Berry. You're her... _lady friend_."

"I know a lot of people," she deadpans. "Let me talk and I'll tell you all about it, yeah?"

Pasty face nods for her to continue.

"Now, as I was saying, I don't expose myself to journalists unless it's on tape."

"Expose yourself..." he repeats, his face lifting in intrigue. "You mean you...you want to tape us?"

She cringes inwardly. "Not us, _me_. I talk, you and a tape recorder listens. I don't want you twisting my words or misquoting me. I don't care if your blog is trash, I'll sue your ass for libel if you don't get my story straight, comprende?"

"Sure. Okay," Jacob shrugs without resistance. He looks at her in silent expectation for a moment. She cops a similar look and throws it right back at him. "So...did you bring one with you?"

"Bring what with me?"

"A tape recorder. Do you have an old vintage one or something?"

Her face scrunches in confusion. It was like asking one of her regular gents at the strip club if he had any tits. "You mean _you_ don't?"

"No," he shrugs again. "I didn't even know they still made those. I would've tried Ebay, except no one I've interviewed has ever respected me enough to worry that I'd misquote them...you're my first," he emphasizes, his eyes dancing as he contemplates other _firsts_ he hopes to experience here tonight.

Santana barely hears him over her inner voice shouting "A-ha!" at the top of its lungs. It'd be nice if she'd gotten a decent cup of coffee out of it, at least, but oh snap, it looks like this whole thing is going to be easier, _so much_ easier than she would've thought. She isn't quite done yet, needing a bit more confirmation just to be sure. She keeps it cool and unfazed as she continues playing pasty face like a fiddle. (Who knew the fiddle was easier than a fucking kazoo?)

"You know they have apps for that nowadays," she offers, forcing an incredulous chuckle. "Like, for voice recordings and whatnot. In fact I'm pretty sure your phone comes standard with one."

"Well, maybe you could show me where it is and how to use it... _Miss Lopez_ ," he suggests, every word sounding like a quote from a bad porno.

"Sure, I'll show you how," she chuckles again, this time with a hint of irony she knew would go flying straight over his head (or get tangled in his giant Jew fro). "But first, how 'bout fetching me a refill?"

He obliges without question, oblivious to her request for a refill despite having not taken a single sip. If she thought he was a half-decent cook she might've shouted for him to fix her an eggs benedict while he was at it.

But never mind all that. Her work here is done now that she has what she came for...or rather she _doesn't_ have it, because it never existed in the first place.

While Jacob pushes buttons on a microwave, she whips out her phone and snaps a few damning photos of his creepy little troll haven. She almost takes her time with it, because it's all just too damn easy. Then she turns and makes her exit out the door, out of the building, already hailing herself a cab back to Midtown by the time Jacob's microwave dings her refill is ready.

She props her feet up in the backseat as she texts Rachel Berry not to worry. Because it turns out Jacob Israel's coffee is as weak as any story he'd ever attempt to smear her with. She'd gone to his apartment intending to destroy the evidence, only to discover there _was_ no evidence whatsoever at all. There never had been, and Jew Fro had nothing. Finn and Rachel had _everything_ , or at least they soon would.

Santana supposes she likes the two of them _just_ enough to smile softly at the thought.

* * *

And _of course_ the public was still under the impression that Rachel Berry and Jesse St. James were very much engaged, very much due to attend the Tony Awards arm-in-arm tomorrow evening. It didn't matter what went on behind the scenes; the public saw celebrities as figures cut out of cardboard, propped up and playing inside a pretend world. Essentially they had no behind the scenes, because all scenes came to an end when the cameras shut off and the curtains were drawn.

Meanwhile the media ached to know more, and yet neglected the truth completely. Mainly because "the truth" and what they wanted the truth to be were two entirely different things. They must've known all along that people would read the stories, and then write ones of their own.

Upon discovering this, Rachel realizes her attempts to micromanage her own image are essentially pointless. People are far too busy making her in their own image, whether she likes it or not. It's unsettling and liberating all at once. It weakens her fallacies and strengthens what she knows to be true and steadfast in her own heart. It makes her better at the game; the game she figured out how to win by learning how to play it backwards.

She found love, and putting that love first _is_ backwards. Especially in showbusiness.

Putting love first in her heart didn't mean anything else was secondary. It's the well from which she draws her inspiration, and it enhances everything in her life that she touches. She's all lit up _because_ of it, and better, so much better than she would've ever been without it.

But that's all safe inside her secret heart; the heart that only Finn knows. It's real to her, real to _them_. Having those inside secrets makes it easier for her to prop herself up on the outside, and play inside of a pretend world. It's only "easier," she supposes, because it's what she has to do. _Having_ to do something tends to make the doing awfully easier.

Emphasis on the awful.

Artie reiterates this to her in private once the media from the press conference has dispersed. She and Jesse are the ambassadors of this entire production. The love ("love") developed off-stage was a manifestation of the love ("love") they'd shared _on_ -stage before an audience night after night. It was an inevitability, thanks to a director who demanded authenticity from his actors' performances. True love ("love") had been wrenched out of them, molded into forms until it became life's imitation of art.

In short, Artie wanted credit for the whole damn thing.

The irony isn't lost on Rachel. The wheelchair-bound director using her and Jesse's fake, soulless romance as a symbol of his creative authenticity was frankly, well...sad. She understands regardless, knowing Artie's physical handicaps had instilled him with a burning desire to appear larger than life. Rachel wants that for him too. She respects Artie; he took a chance on her long nose and short resume. He was nothing like Cassandra July, who'd told her the more doors she let hit in her the face, the better; that way she might be able to get insurance to pay for her nose job.

Needless to say, Rachel felt she owed him a debt of gratitude. She could keep the charade up for one more day. She could pose beside Jesse on the red carpet, smiling for the cameras and gushing about the romance that had blossomed both on stage and off. She could attribute it all to Artie's brilliance, claiming only he could've evoked such raw and real emotions from them both. And then she could turn to Jesse and smile up at him adoringly. Lovingly. _Nauseatingly_. Teeth clenching-ly. Biting her tongue not to say what she really thinks of him-ly.

Little did the media know it would be the most strenuous performance she'd given to date.

She'll suck it up and do it anyway, because, well...she basically has to.

And she doesn't just _have to_ have to. There frankly aren't any other options. The logistics of the whole thing already have her sitting in her assigned seat next to Jesse, and making no fuss about it. They have her smiling with nervous humility as the camera pans to her, and then turning to Jesse in celebration if her name is called, or for consolation if it isn't.

Frankly, the giant dinner table that is the 71st Annual Tony Awards is already set. There's no rearranging the silverware or the place settings at this point. It's too late, and far too close to dinnertime to even think about doing so.

Sure, she could kicked up a fuss and _demand_ that Jesse be seated five seats down from her. She could insist that one of the crew members' spouses be bumped from the guest list to make room for her new mystery man.

In short, she could thrown an all-out diva fit and get things any which way she wanted them. But that "way" is quite simply un-go-able, given the current circumstances. The Tony's are 24 hours away; she can't exactly wake up tomorrow morning, break off her "engagement" to Jesse, only to show up on the arm of a completely different man later that same evening.

Or, that is to say, she can't do it gracefully. The media would kill her if she even tried, and love every minute of it. They'd turn the whole night into a Soap Opera. She could see it now: the camera panning to her face...then over to Jesse seething...then to Finn's triumphant half-smirk...then back to Jesse seething...then back to her face again. _Repeat_.

God, the melodrama! This year's Tony Awards would end up winning a Daytime Emmy.

And it would've all been worth it if meant her getting to share her magical night with Finn. She can't do it, though. There's too many moving parts. It would be selfish of her to throw them all into upheaval at this stage in the game. Finn would never allow her to play it that way, anyhow...and _God_ , does she love that about him.

"Sweetheart," she murmurs, their heads sharing the same pillow in the bed she never wants to leave. She wonders if they'll keep coming back to this crumbling building in Brooklyn. Her career is on the rise. Finn will do amazing things, no doubt. Their lives' are destined to grow more and more extravagant in terms of style, status, and taste.

She wonders if castles will become of them. And if they do, will they still come back to this place? She doesn't know, but she imagines they always will, because this place is _their_ place. Their own little hideaway.

It's their inside looking out. And it's them turning the tables on the prying eyes of the world.

"I'm so sorry, Finn...I wish more than anything that you could be there with me tonight."

"Stop," he whispers. He means stop with the apologies. He doesn't need her to be sorry, because he isn't. It's all perfect as long as they have each other. In the pouring rain it's perfect. In the broken-down ruins of Brooklyn it's perfect too; perhaps even more so.

And Rachel knows that too. If anything, she's just feeling sorry for herself. She wants perfect with a stack of blueberry pancakes on top. That is to say she wants the person she loves to be by her side in that audience tonight.

And really, _honestly_ , she doesn't think that's too much to ask.

"Hey...hey babe, look at me…"

He takes her tiny hand in his and brings it to his heart.

"I _will_ be there."

And she knows what he means, and that it's true. She's had this conversation with herself at least a hundred times over, and she knows. _She knows_.

And yet, maybe if she could just take a tiny little bite-sized version of Finn, put him in her pocketbook and carry him around with her all night long…

No, Rachel, no, _now_ you're being silly. Seriously. Just stop.

Because honestly?

Just carrying someone around in your heart is enough.

* * *

Finn's in her heart hours later as she stands beside Jesse on the red carpet. Her dress shimmers in the late afternoon sun, and honestly she couldn't be kicking more ass in the fashion department. She just hopes it's enough to distract attention from the mannequin-like poses she and Jesse continue to hold for the insatiable cameras. She even practiced smiling naturally in front of the mirror before she came, but it was nearly impossible to stand beside someone as stiff and frigid as Jesse and not feel like your limbs were made of plastic, your smile manufactured.

Jesse's been that way ever since the incident with the cops. Plastic, spiritless, and downright empty are the words she'd use to describe his demeanor over the past few days. She expected more of a fight out of him, but instead he appeared to have surrendered completely to the inevitable. He knows he has an appointment with the authorities coming up, and that there was no getting out of it. He must not have trusted his own natural impulses not to lash out in ways that would only make things ten times worse for himself...so he simply gave up. He deactivated all his passions and became unresponsive and dull.

Even his hand feels like dead weight against her lower back. She knows that's a vast improvement over the grip he had on her just a few nights prior, but still...it's like she can only get one of two extremes out of him: a fight or a soul-sucking emptiness.

It's a wonder they're even here, on the red carpet at the Tony Awards, considering the acrobatic mind games she's had to play throughout this entire ordeal. And honestly, she still doesn't feel like she's actually won.

"Ah, there's the power couple I've been looking for!" Artie greets them. He wheels himself into the limelight, evoking several shouts of protest and "hey four eyes, get the fuck outta the shot!" from the ravenous photographers.

"He's the director!" Rachel snaps, appalled at their ignorance. No wonder Artie thought he'd never get his due credit without riding someone else's coattails along the way. He'd directed the most acclaimed Broadway production of the year and the media dismissed him like some peasant. Jesse appears to share their sentiment, but continues holding his tongue in apathy.

"Hey, why don't we get a shot with the rest of the cast and crew?" Rachel suggests, eager to wedge anything and anyone in between her and Jesse.

"That's an excellent idea, Rachel! I'm pretty sure everyone here thinks I'm with the Make A Wish Foundation," Artie grumbles with an eye roll.

"Well you most certainly are not, so let's remedy that, shall we?"

She smiles encouragingly as Artie rounds up the lesser-known, but no less important contributors to A Different Kind of Blue. Most of them look surprised at actually being called forth into the limelight. Rachel's smile falters, understanding now more than ever how she came to be the source of so much bitterness and envy from her fellow cast and crew-mates. Every one of them had made vital contributions to this well-oiled machine, and yet they remained on the periphery, scattered around the red carpet like dateless losers at the Prom. Meanwhile she and Jesse were crowned king and queen of the whole damn thing, and...ugh, God, it was just like high school, wasn't it? It wasn't her fault, and certainly not her intention, and yet she felt like breaking off a piece of what she'd earned and giving others their fair share.

Mercedes, on the other hand, had no problem stepping into the spotlight and taking a piece for herself. "Don't step on my dress, midget Barbra," she mutters, maneuvering to stand purposefully in front of Rachel's left shoulder. One of these days she'll take Mercedes aside to discuss the fact that she was actually an inch shorter than her, even in heels. Then perhaps she'll reveal exactly how it was that Victor Vasquez came to know Mercedes Jones by name.

Perhaps not, though, the fiery diva never needing to know that it was her little brunette nemesis who'd all but surrendered the movie role over to her.

Rachel isn't sure she ever really wanted it anyhow. It never seemed like the right fit for her, and there would be plenty of opportunities for her down the line; if there weren't, well, screw it, she'd make her own. She was Rachel Berry, dammit! It wasn't by chance or circumstance that her star had shined the brightest throughout this entire production. Others were talented and deserving, yes, but she was her own kind of everything, and it was enough.

She feels her confidence turning her mouth up into a secret grin, the cameras eating it up. She wonders if he can see her right now. It was impossible to know which parts of the arrival ceremony were being televised from moment to moment. Maybe Kurt got the live stream working despite his apartment's atrociously weak WiFi signal.

Regardless, she knows Finn's watching whatever he can see from Kurt's living room in Jersey. She tells herself he's watching her now; she feels him all too powerfully for it not to be the case. A TV camera hovers nearby, and she gives a little wink.

* * *

Finn winks back at the 55-inch flat screen, smiling to himself as he settles into Kurt's immaculately crumbless, stainless Pottery Barn chair. He'd been invited to Kurt's annual Tony Awards watch party on the condition that he not spill anything or consume any appetizers while seated on, or standing anywhere near, the living room furniture. He's been invited in the past, and with the same conditions implied, but he's never taken much of an interest in "the gays' version of the Superbowl" prior to this year.

And it wasn't hard to figure why. He's literally glued to the TV, eager to soak in any glimpse of Rachel that flashes across the screen. Kurt's friends keep chuckling at the lone straight guy watching the arrival ceremony as if it were the main event.

And of course his pride and elation comes with a side order of teeth-gritting frustration at the sight of Jesse posing by her side. He's not mad. Not at her, anyway, but honestly, it's just...well, it's really fuckin' sucky, is what it is. It's sucky that he's here, and not there.

"Keep smiling, you smug bastard," he mutters to himself. "Let them believe you're the golden boy for a few more days." Little does the gushing, clamoring media know that Rachel's charming prince of a fiance has a date with two burly police officers looming just around the corner. But Finn knows, and a satisfied smirk pulls at his lips as he's reminded that Jesse's days of being a media darling are numbered. Three, two, one, and then BOOM.

Bombshell. _Exposed_.

But enough about Jesse. Finn's had more than enough of him, and he knows Rachel has too. He wonders if that fact is obvious to anyone but him as the camera pans across her smiling face. The smile is broad and bright, and yet it doesn't quite touch her eyes; the only time it did was when she winked at him just now.

He wants all parts of her face to be smiling all the time. It's all he wants, but tonight he'll just have to be sure he catches every secret wink she steals at the camera. At least he knows those winks are meant for him.

"I'm not inviting you next year," Kurt states from behind the chair he's sitting on. Finn turns and gapes up at his step-brother, wondering if it was possible to literally shed crumbs, the way dogs shed their fur.

"What'd I do?"

"You really wanna pull at that thread?" Kurt challenges with a lifted brow. He smirks lightly and nods toward the TV. "I highly doubt you'll be needing any invitations next year—because you'll actually be there, with her. We all know this is the first of many award shows Rachel will attend. But it'll be the first and last one she attends with someone who isn't you."

Finn smiles in appreciation. "Thanks, little brother."

Kurt shakes his head in dismay, his eyes fixed on the screen straight ahead. "My God, they're going to need an ice pick to chip away at the tension between those two. How on earth is anyone buying into this little charade?"

"Beats me," Finn sighs.

"Please don't tell me she plans to gush all over him if, and when, she wins her award. I doubt even Meryl could make that sound genuine."

Finn sighs again, shrugging in resignation. "She doesn't have much of a choice. Everyone in the audience thinks she's engaged to Jesse. He'll be sitting right next to her when they announce her as the winner. Plus he's her co-star, so even if it weren't for this whole fake-engagement thing she'd still have to thank him in her speech."

"Do you think she'll mention you?"

Finn is silent for a moment, then shakes his head. "No. The media would kill her if she mentioned some other guy in her speech."

"They would. They'd love it," Kurt acknowledges with a sigh. "But she wouldn't necessarily have to mention you by name...maybe she'll pay some kind of subtle homage to you—one that only you would pick up on."

"I don't know, maybe," Finn shrugs. "Honestly, I told her not to even worry. I just want this entire night to be about her. It's her dream, you know?"

Kurt glances over at the TV screen, then back down at Finn, his brow arching in disbelief. "And you think this is how she dreamed it? Smiling through gritted teeth while posing beside her fake fiance? Something tells me that was never part of the original highlight reel."

"Well what do you expect me to do about it, Kurt? Drive down there and crash the ceremony? Shove Jesse out of the way and take his place next to Rachel?"

"Honestly? Yes. But practically and logistically speaking, that plan is highly flawed. You'd never make it past security, for one thing...so yes, of course I understand why you're here and not there, Finn. I just wish that for once you'd entertain the notion that you are part of the dream too. I'm willing to bet you always have been. I mean, for the love of God, enough with the selfless sacrifices already! Why can't you just accept the fact that Rachel is better off with you than without you? If she wants to thank you in her acceptance speech then just let her, why don't you? I love you, Finn, but your chivalry exhausts me sometimes."

"Looks like someone's hoping to win Best Dramatic Performance at a Tony Awards Watch Party," Blaine jokes as he enters the living room, drink in hand. The two have been texting for the past two weeks, thanks to Finn passing Blaine's contact info onto Kurt, per Rachel's suggestion. They seem to have hit it off so far, and Blaine is clearly undeterred by Kurt's flare for theatrics.

Kurt blows out a deep breath, embarrassed by his explosive monologue. Finn chuckles lightly, Kurt's passionately unfiltered words, along with the sentiment behind them, turning over in his mind.

 _Enough with the selfless sacrifices, Finn. And the chivalry, God! It's EXHAUSTING._

Honestly, his step-brother has a point. Right now his idea of chivalry feels more like storming onto that red carpet and giving Jesse a black eye on live TV. It'd be a neanderthal thing to do, and Rachel would most likely never forgive him...but shit! At least he'd light a fire behind her eyes, the kind that earned her a Tony nod in the first place. Maybe she'd be fired up enough to curse him in her acceptance speech; better that than the cold complacency she's been reduced to here tonight.

"Around everyone, looks like the Awards are about to start," Kurt announces.

But it's too late now.

* * *

 **TBC...**


	15. You're the Best Person in the World

Rachel feels a sense of calm fall over her the moment the awards ceremony begins. _This is real, Rachel. Radio City Music Hall, you made it._

She's utterly stunned by its legendary design, the high ceilings arching over her head like rainbows. Anything bounced off those walls would bounce back in the form of beautiful music. Even in her silence she can hear the brilliant acoustics carrying her voice on a soft, pillowy cloud, protecting and perfecting it.

It's her holy grail, no doubt. And it's everything she ever dreamed it would be.

It's the first commercial break after Nathan Lane's opening monologue when she feels Jesse reach for her hand. She stiffens in her seat, and then slowly wriggles free from his light grasp. She'll play up the act in a minute, once the cameras are back to hunting the audience for reaction shots. Until then she wants to soak in the excitement of her surroundings without Jesse's touch making her flesh creep.

"Rachel Berry?" a familiar voice speaks her name. Up until that moment it had only been familiar to her through the speakers of her earphones.

"Miss Lupone," Rachel gapes up at one of her childhood heroes standing over her.

"It's nice to meet you," she says with a warm smile. "I've seen you perform. You're quite a talented young lady."

"Th-thank you," Rachel stammers, practically speechless. "That means so much coming from you, Miss Lupone. I've always been a huge fan."

Miss Lupone nods graciously. Meanwhile, Rachel hears Jesse clear his throat beside her, obviously waiting on his own acknowledgement from the Broadway legend. "Well, I just wanted to let you know I'm rooting for you. I think you have a tremendous shot at winning."

Rachel thanks her again, overcome with gratitude and awe as the older women places a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it affectionately. Her expression hardens as she throws a quick glance over at Jesse. "Good luck to you as well," she tells him shortly.

Jesse grumbles at the blatant rebuff, and Rachel tries to keep from smirking. Once he's turned away from them, sulking in his seat like a bored child, Miss Lupone leans down to place her lips close to Rachel's ear.

"Dump him," she whispers.

Rachel's brow furrows once her idol has left her side. It figures a seasoned actress like Patti Lupone would be an excellent judge of character, not to mention highly intuitive when came to relationship dynamics. She wonders how many others in attendance can sense the illegitimacy of what she and Jesse are attempting to sell them here tonight. She hates the thought of appearing transparent in the eyes of her peers. That would make her somewhat of a fraud, wouldn't it? Certainly unworthy of such a prestigious award...

Granted, much of her artistic integrity went out the window when she agreed to hop on board this PR train. "I did it for love!" she wants to shout in her own defense. Because in many ways, she's proud of this whole crazy thing. It's wonderfully and stupidly romantic, isn't it?

That's her and Finn, honestly: wonderfully, stupidly romantic. Theirs is the better story...it's better because it's _true_. And she knows the truth is what her peers deserve to get from her tonight.

The media can slander her all they want. She'd rather have the respect of her fellow actors, directors, writers, and so on; it's _their_ work she admires infinitely more than the gossip mongers'. And Rachel decides it's high time she start pandering to one and not the other.

Not that she's even won the damn award yet.

Her head is spinning as the show maintains its steady crawl toward her category. She's perfectly poised and reactive to her surroundings, and yet she stopped pulling faces for the cameras at least three commercial breaks ago. If the viewing audience happens to catch her sitting stiffly beside Jesse, so be it. At this point, she'd rather her most raw and organic expressions be put on display. Considering the stunts she's been pulling lately, she figures she owes everybody that much.

Besides, the Broadway audience tends to pride itself on having a taste for authenticity. Let this be a testament to how perceptive _they_ actually are of the raw emotions telling stories all over her face.

Perhaps they're all frauds: the performers _and_ the spectators. She'll just have to wait and see.

It's the final commercial break before her category is announced. Jesse turns toward her.

"You're going to win, Rachel," he states. There's no encouragement in his tone, but no bitterness either. He's just being pragmatic.

She gives no response, just keeps her eyes focused forward as she straightens in her seat.

"I know that things have gotten...well, you and I, we've certainly had a conflict of interests, haven't we?"

She purses her lips tightly, but tries to remain unfazed. She wants to appear authentic, yes, but rolling her eyes in disgust would be a bit much right now. It's certainly her natural response to what Jesse's implying. She knows she's not innocent in all of this, but chalking it up to "a conflict of interests" won't make her forget his inexcusable aggression towards her, or the threats he made.

"I would just hope that you could see beyond our... _differences_ , and focus on the upsides. The electricity we've shared on stage, for instance...that's the reason we're both here tonight, isn't it?"

Her eyes threaten to roll back in her head once again. She knows what he's doing, and that this is his final plea. She might find it piteously vulnerable if he weren't _still_ intent on laying a claim to what she's garnered for herself. His last statement, "that's the reason _we're_ both here tonight, isn't it?" makes it clear he considers himself vital to her success. As if _he_ had evoked that award-winning performance from the depths of her heart.

With that seed planted in her mind, how could she think of crediting anyone other than _him_ in her acceptance speech? How could she not call him up on stage to share in the spotlight beside her? How could she not scratch the name "Rachel Berry" off her gold-plated award and replace it with his?

 _How could she not, how could she not..._

This is Jesse's thought process, anyway. It's methodical and possessive.

And it's too little, too late.

* * *

"Hey guys, Rachel's category is coming up!" Kurt announces, calling everyone into the living room and shushing their side conversations. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, smiling in relief when he feels Blaine reach for his hand. He's a nervous wreck right now, and he's not entirely sure why. There's no doubt in his mind that Rachel has this in the bag; what he does doubt is whether she'll step up on stage and accept her award without stirring a little drama in the process. A little or a lot, he isn't so sure. She certainly wouldn't be the first Broadway diva to do it, and yet he just hopes she's thought this through...not just for her own sake, but for his step-brother's as well.

Finn didn't know it was possible to go this long without blinking. He's not sure what he thinks he'll miss, since the camera crew clearly can't get enough of Rachel, but his eyes remain glued to the TV screen regardless. He's definitely sensed a shift in her demeanor over the past thirty minutes or so. Her quiet resignation as she stood beside Jesse on the red carpet has since been replaced with something more defiant. And while he loves seeing passion reignite within her, he can't help but wonder what brought it on.

Whatever the case, he has a feeling things aren't about to go as smoothly or gracefully as others would've hoped.

* * *

"And the Tony Award for Best Performance by a Leading Actress in a Musical goes to…"

It's a cliche to say that her whole life flashes in her mind's eye in those moments before the winner is announced. It goes forwards and back, a convoluted remembrance of milestones, many of which she wouldn't have thought were pivotal enough to make the highlight reel. Her childhood mingles with her adulthood, scattered pieces from all universes merging to form one linear path toward the now.

What had seemed crooked was actually a straight line all along. That meandering path she'd been on was always taking her home, and always would be. She had arrived.

"...Rachel Berry, A Different Kind of Blue."

The audience explodes with applause, seeming to agree wholeheartedly with the committee's decision. She feels the well-wishes of her peers streaming toward her, and yet she's momentarily paralyzed from having any reaction at all. That changes quickly, stars exploding in her eyes and all over her face as instinct and momentum lifts her to her feet. She looks down the line of faces beaming back at her, their egos lying dormant under their seats as they stand in celebration of their co-star. Even Mercedes flashes her a humble smile when their eyes meet.

Artie, while clearly ecstatic for her, is also giving her that look. It isn't so much a warning look as it is a silent plea for her to behave. He must've sensed some ambivalence about her when he came by to wish her luck just now. He's obviously nervous, no longer trusting her to stay the course, to keep selling this whole fairy tail shtick with Jesse as though it were a byproduct of his directorial brilliance.

She figures now isn't the best time to inform Artie that she's done taking direction from him when it's not within the context of a play. She's been done with that for a while, actually, but now...well, now she's just done with being done.

"Congratulations, Rachel."

The words sound more like a curse, and a chill shoots up her spine when she feels Jesse's hand on her lower back. Her plan had been to ignore him completely, no hug, no kiss, no phony exchange of "I can't believe I won!" and "I couldn't have done this without you!"...basically no nothing.

But Jesse has a plan of his own, of course; it's a desperate plan, one he'll claim was a last resort. "It didn't have to be this way!" he'll insist when confronted about it later.

That desperation blazes behind his eyes, turning them a whole different color. She pulls back slightly, at the same time he pulls her in, smashing their lips together like a head-on collision.

It's only in her head that she hears the audience gasp in horror. Their cheering resumes the moment Jesse detaches his lips from hers; had he kept them there a second longer, she would've punched him square in the face.

Not that it would've made much difference to him at this point. He has nothing to lose. He knows it. That final collision of a kiss, so bruisingly unromantic, was actually his final kiss-off. His last grasp at any threads of her coattails he could reach before she ascended the stage and left him stranded in the dust.

They've been colliding all along, her and Jesse. They're two people who will never know how to go the same way without running each other off the road and combusting.

"Rachel? Are you alright?" the woman's kind voice cuts through the chaos, stirring Rachel from her brief paralysis. She turns and sees Viola by her side, her eyes soft with empathy and concern. Rachel had forgotten Viola was even here tonight, and feels immediately comforted by the older woman's presence.

"I...yes. Yes, I'm fine," Rachel states, her lips still burning from Jesse's kiss.

Viola searches her face for confirmation, casting a menacing glare over at Jesse before bringing her eyes back to Rachel. She nods encouragingly, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Well, come on, dear, everyone's waiting. You've got to go up there and receive your award."

Rachel straightens her posture and takes a deep breath, the cheers from the audience echoing between her ears. She's ready. But first, she reaches down and removes the silver engagement ring from her finger, slipping it inside Viola's hand as a grin turns up the corners of her lips. Viola grins back, silently applauding the gesture. Rachel feels an immediate sense of relief, as if the ring had been weighing her down, tying her to lie she was no longer telling.

Viola pulls her in for a quick hug, whispering congratulations in her ear before sending her up on stage to accept her award. By now the audience is teetering on the brink of impatience, clearly wondering what the hold up is.

* * *

"She took off the ring...mother of God, she took off the ring! Did everyone else just see that?" Kurt's friend exclaims, his wide eyes gaping at the events playing out on screen.

"Poor Rachel. She looked completely blindsided by that kiss," Kurt shakes his head in dismay.

"I agree, that was totally uncalled for," Blaine contributes. "I mean what was he trying to do, check her for strep?"

Finn shoots them all a glare, silencing everyone's needless commentary. He doesn't exactly need a room full of people reiterating just how royally fucked up that was. After exploding with joy at Rachel's name being called as the winner, he'd felt his insides ignite with rage as he watched Jesse take her face in his hands and pull her in for what was surely the most unromantic lip lock ever caught on live TV.

His hands have been balled into fists ever since. He takes a deep breath, willing himself to relax as he watches Rachel ascend the stage. A soft smile tugs at his lips. She won. His beautiful girl is about to receive everything she spent her whole life working toward. There's a permanent gold star by her name now that nothing and no one can ever erase.

It's everything he wanted for her all along. He wanted it for her more than he'd ever want anything for himself.

He feels Kurt's eyes on him, and glances over to meet his worried gaze. Finn offers a weak smile, assuring his step-brother he's okay, that there's no going back at this point. It is what it is.

Kurt smiles in return, his eyes full of sympathy and support. "You should be there with her," he communicates wordlessly.

* * *

Her heart pounds as she steps up to the microphone, award in hand. She already took more of her fair share of time getting up here, and the conductor down in the orchestra pit looks poised and ready to strike up the music and cut to commercial before she's uttered a single thank you.

The audience is impatient as well, and yet all the more intrigued by what transpired between her and Jesse just now, and what her reaction to it will be. She feels curious sets of eyes zeroing in on her ringless finger, the one tracing over the sleek lines and etchings along her most cherished prize.

"Well, first let me say what an absolute honor it is to have been welcomed into such a dynamic and talented theatre community," she begins, paying respect to her peers the way she had always planned. The humility feels natural to her; it doesn't come off forced or ingratiating the way it might've in her teen years. In fact, the first half of her speech rolls off her tongue with such ease that she can only project gratitude toward that obnoxious young girl and the countless shampoo bottles accepted in front of a foggy bathroom mirror.

(She didn't inform Leslie Odom when he placed the award in her hands just a moment before that she half-expected her Tony to be made out of plastic and have a light coconutty scent filtering through the top).

A spirited round of applause follows her heartfelt tribute to Artie, his brilliant direction being one of the main reasons she stands before them tonight. The words are sincere as she heaps praise upon him, although she's definitely stalling for time. She thanks her cast and crew, expressing deep reverence for their work without singling anyone out in particular.

And now...well, now would be the time for her to cast her eyes toward that special someone in the audience, her smile beaming, her voice soft with adoration as she dedicates the most crucial part of all this—the heart part—to her beloved co-star Jesse.

She feels the weight of expectation in the air; Artie urging her to please just keep up with the charade a little longer; Jesse's eyes cutting across the theatre, their bitterness dulling the bronzed, nickel-plated medallion in her hands.

His name hovers on the tip of her tongue, but it's not a name she can bring herself to recite fondly. Trying to do so would ironically result in one of the most transparent performances ever given by an actress on this legendary stage.

And what amount of good would that do for Artie's reputation?

The answer? NONE AT ALL. And it's his job to reach that realization on his own, however long it takes.

The conductor's been signaling her to wrap it up for the past two minutes, but she squares her shoulders and clears her throat, intimating the dramatic pinnacle of her speech is about to be delivered. She can feel that she's in full command of her audience, and doubts the director would cut her short at a time like this. She'll say what she needs to say regardless, and have them yank her off stage with a giant fish hook if necessary.

"Well, I know many of you are probably waiting for me to acknowledge a certain someone," she continues, her hands tightening protectively around her award. "And that's exactly what I'm going to do, because that person has inspired me more than words can say..." She takes a deep, steadying breath. "But contrary to what you may think, that person is actually not here in the audience tonight."

* * *

"Oh...God," Finn utters, his jaw hitting the floor as he gapes at the TV screen straight ahead. An anxious silence grips the room, everyone on the edge of their seat as they await Rachel's next words.

Kurt gulps, squeezing Blaine's hand tighter. My, my, Rachel Berry, but you sure know how to bring the melodrama. If he didn't know better, he might think he was watching the VMA's.

He briefly wonders whether Finn has bothered to inform their parents that he's in love with a Broadway star. Well this oughtta do for an introduction. Especially if Rachel mentions Finn by name...

"His name is Finn Hudson," Rachel declares after a long theatrical pause.

WELP.

Finn's stomach swoops, his eyes bulging impossibly wider, because holy f**k, Rachel just did that! He hears no audible gasp from the audience at Radio City, and it occurs to him that they don't have the faintest idea who Finn Hudson actually is. Sure he's been mentioned on Sports Center once or twice, but the name was unlikely to ring any bells amongst some of the most revered members of the theatre community. He could be Rachel's great-uncle for all they knew.

But as the camera makes a dramatic cut to Jesse glowering in the audience, Finn figures many have already sensed that he is definitely not Rachel's uncle.

"I know this will come as some surprise to many of you," Rachel goes on to say, "but Finn is actually the man to whom I must dedicate this great honor. He is the man who's inspired me, not because he's an actor, but because he opened my heart up to a love like it had never known before...I was able to channel these feelings on stage night after night, and it brought new levels of authenticity to my performance." Her eyes are glazed with tears as she pulls the award in tight against her chest. "Thank you, Finn. The heart of this is dedicated to you."

The music finally cues up, punctuating Rachel's grand statement as though it had been planned that way all along. Rachel exits the stage, the audience applauding with some hesitance in light of the blatant snubbing that just occurred.

Finn is overcome with emotion, his misty eyes barely registering the toothpaste commercial now playing out on screen. He can hardly believe what Rachel just did for them: laid their love bare in front of a now-stunned and stupefied audience.

It wasn't just a slight nod, some vague expression of gratitude directed towards an unnamed recipient. She'd let everyone know that recipient had a name; a name that wasn't Jesse. That name hadn't even been worth mentioning, despite it being printed on the cover of a Playbill, just underneath her own. Despite gazing into his eyes night after night after night as she sang of her love, honor, and soul-surrendering devotion. Despite having shown up to the awards with her arm in his, his ring on her finger.

All things considered, it was a snubbing of epic proportion. And it was a confession that her heart belonged to someone who was not her widely-publicized beau.

Finn has to admit that the gesture is pretty fitting. So bold, so passionate...so them.

That notion doesn't keep his heart from swelling with pride, only to constrict in fear of what's to come. Rachel offered her confession without shame, and yet...and yet that doesn't mean the media-public won't assign a boatload of shame to it.

Things will all even out, the momentum swinging back in her favor once the news of Jesse's domestic violence breaks within the coming days. There's most definitely a storm coming Jesse's way, but the millions who just witnessed Rachel's bombshell don't know any of that yet. Not tonight they don't.

All they know is, Rachel Berry has some splainin' to do.

He imagines she's doing a lot of that right now, the media berating her with questions. Rachel, can you tell us more about your mystery man?...Rachel, does this mean you and Jesse are through?...Rachel, did you forget to thank Jesse in your speech, or was it intentional?

They weren't much so questions as they were demands, all of which they felt entitled to know the answers to. He pictures them descending like vultures, eating her alive, and the most he can think to do about it is to grab for his phone and text her to see if she's okay.

Meanwhile, the rest of the room remains suspended in awkward silence, everyone wanting to gauge Finn's reaction before voicing ones of their own. Finn is oblivious to all of them as his thumbs type frantically against the keypad, his face creased with concern.

"Um...Finn?" Kurt asks, figuring he should be the one to break the silence. Finn offers a slight grunt, his eyes fixated on his phone as if he were trying to will it to buzz with Rachel's response. "Finn, I-I would imagine Rachel's a little tied up at the moment. The press is probably mobbing her as we speak." He lowers his voice, muttering, "Especially after that little doozy of a speech she just gave."

"I have to go," Finn announces, his voice steady with determination as he rises to his feet.

"Go? Go where?" Kurt shakes his head in confusion.

"There."

"Where is there?"

"There is there," Finn repeats, pointing a finger at the TV screen.

"Radio City Musical Hall?" Kurt questions with a lifted brow. "Finn, you are aware that that's an actual place, and that the little people you see on screen don't actually live inside the TV?"

"Real funny, Kurt. I gotta go."

"Finn, wait!" Kurt protests, placing two firm hands on each of his step-brother's shoulders before giving him a pointed look. "I just, I really don't think this is the best idea."

"Well Kurt, I don't if 'best ideas' are really the theme tonight," Blaine interjects with a chuckle. Kurt shoots him a glare, not needing his charming new friend to supply any commentary at the moment.

Finn, on the other hand, has nothing but appreciation for Blaine's logic. "I know I don't have the best idea," he defends. "I barely have an idea, period! I just, I just need to be where Rachel is. I need to keep those damn vultures away from her, keep them from eating her alive!"

"Annnd you plan to do that how?" Kurt challenges, not waiting for Finn's response before he continues, "Look, I get it, you're in full-blown Robin Hood mode at this point. Rachel made a grand romantic gesture for you, and you want to ride in on your white horse and save her from the backlash that's sure to confront her. But Finn, even if you could somehow get past security—and the white horse would stand a better chance than you—you wouldn't be saving Rachel from anything. You'd be throwing gasoline on the fire she just willingly lit."

"Kurt, Rachel just said my name on stage in her acceptance speech," Finn argues. "Security should have no problem letting me in, because...because I'm 'that guy'! I should go there—I should, like, bust down the doors and carry her off into the sunset and stuff!"

"The sun has already set," Kurt deadpans.

"Well...whatever! I'm going. Going's better than just fucking sitting here!"

"That is an insult to the plush softness of my Pottery Barn chairs!"

Just then, Blaine's panic-stricken murmurings manage to filter in through a gap in Kurt and Finn's heated exchange.

"Oh God help us…" Blaine gapes at the TV.

"Who let him in?" Kurt's friend muses in disbelief.

"This is not good…"

Kurt and Finn turn their eyes toward the TV in confusion, and Finn would swear the bearded comedian filling the screen was smirking directly at him. Ricky Gervais; he's pretty sure that's his name. Finn remembers him hosting the Golden Globes a few years back, and that his humor had been a bit too scathingly personal for most celebrities' tastes.

Oh yes, Finn remembers exactly who Ricky Gervais is. And, well...shit.

Anxiety grips the room once again.

"Well, h-he's just a presenter," Blaine offers weakly. "I doubt he'll make any jokes about—"

"Sorry for the delay, folks," the comedian begins, Finn holding his breath as he awaits the punchline. Gervais indulges in a lengthy pause before he delivers. "I just saw Rachel Berry backstage—she asked me if I'd fancy having a three-way with her and the bloke she's been screwing on the side."

Finn's stomach plummets to the basement.

"Holy mother of…" Kurt mutters.

"How are they not censoring this?" Blaine flinches in disbelief.

"Wait...he's not done…"

"I couldn't help but be intrigued by her offer," Gervais continues. "I know she's just won a Tony, but clearly most of Rachel Berry's best acting has been done in bed!"

Finn's not sure if it's Blaine that finally presses the mute button or the television network; whoever they are, they're too little too late, the savage comedian taking full advantage of Rachel's drama in the most distasteful way.

All eyes are on Finn as Blaine clears his throat awkwardly. "You know, um...comedians are huge opportunists. You really can't take anything they say personally—"

"Blaine, could you maybe just—"

"Yep, I'll shut up."

"Thanks." Kurt turns his attention toward his nostrils-flaring step-brother. "Finn, I...I'm sorry. I for one am appalled that the Tony's would allow such a classless individual to take the stage. I always thought they had higher standards, but apparently—"

"I have to go," Finn states.

"What?"

"I'm going, Kurt. I'm calling a cab and I'm going."

"No, Finn, don't."

"Really not asking for your input this time," Finn says shortly, pressing buttons on his phone as he begins maneuvering towards the door.

"No, I mean don't bother calling for a cab. You can take my car, it'll be faster."

Finn's eyes shoot up to meet Kurt's, surprised by their genuine warmth and support. "You serious?"

"Yes, yes," Kurt nods. "Rachel needs you, Finn. I'm not even sure I know what it is you're about to do, but...please, go do it."

"Thanks, little brother," Finn exhales in relief, pulling Kurt in for a quick, but firm hug. "Swear I'll make it up to you."

"Hm. You can try," Kurt mutters. "Now go, before I come to my senses."

Finn happily follows Kurt's orders, waving goodbye to Blaine and the others before making his grand exit from the apartment. Unable to resist the romantic drama of the moment, everyone shoots up from their seats, sprinting to the open doorway to watch Finn go.

Finn glances over his shoulder as he waits for the elevator, smiling a bit awkwardly at the crowd of dreamy-eyed male faces framed inside Kurt's doorway.

"Finn, what are you doing?" Kurt chides after wedging his way between the others. "This is no time to wait for the elevator, take the stairs!"

"Oh—oh right!" Finn exclaims, pivoting toward the stairwell on the left, only to have the elevator ding, the doors flinging open with a bang.

"No, no, wait, take the elevator!" Kurt redirects him; and Finn follows, scrambling inside the small enclosure and stabbing a finger at the appropriate buttons. There's a slight delay that no amount of button-pushing hurries along, giving Kurt the opportunity to voice a thought that's just entered his mind. "Uh, Finn? By any chance, do our parents have the faintest, foggiest idea that any of this is going on?"

Guilt crosses Finn's features, his eyes trailing down to the phone in his hand: 8 Missed Calls from Mom. Welp. Looks like his mom saw Rachel's acceptance speech. She's probably more than a tad perplexed as to why a Broadway star just dedicated a Tony Award to her son. "Yeah, I, um, I've been meaning to tell them about that, I just—" the elevator comes to his rescue, the doors closing in on Kurt's disapproving glare.

Finn blows out a breath, relieved, at least for the moment. He knows he'll have some explaining to do after tonight; that's putting it mildly, considering twenty minutes ago his mom would've doubted whether her meat-head of a son even knew directions to Broadway, let alone that she'd hear his name dropped by an actress at the Tony's.

Finn knows she'll be ecstatic once she finally learns the truth, but not before she's royally pissed at him for keeping her in the dark. Aside from Kurt, he hasn't shared a whole lot with his family recently—for many reasons, one of them being his and Rachel's relationship hasn't exactly been the smoothest ride. It'd be a tough thing to explain to anyone, least of all his mother.

Oh, and another thing: while his mom might not be an avid follower of the Broadway gossip, she's most likely aware of Rachel's engagement to Jesse...so why then did she dedicate her award to him instead of her own fiance?

"Why, Finn, why? Tell me what's going on! Are you having an affair with a Broadway actress? I swore I raised you better than that, Finn Hudson!"

He'll explain everything later. Or at least explain the parts his mom will actually understand. Right now, his only priority in the world is Kurt's car taking him to—

Rachel

Her name lights up his phone, the device nearly slipping from his fingers in his attempt to answer her call as fast as humanly possible.

"Hello? Rach?"

"Finn," Rachel exhales in relief.

"Rach, where are you? Are you alright?"

"I...well, yes, yes I'm alright," she claims, her voice thick with tension. From what he can hear, her immediate surroundings are calm and quiet. But even through the phone, he can sense that there's chaos looming in the distance.

"Rachel, what's going on? The media, are they—or have they hounded you yet?"

"They will," Rachel sighs. "I haven't faced them yet. Viola's hiding me in a dressing room backstage, but they...they're waiting for me."

"You don't have to face them, Rachel. I don't care what you said or did, not one of them is entitled to an explanation."

"They're all against me, Finn."

"What? Who is?"

"Artie, the whole cast...they see it as me throwing Jesse under the bus and bringing bad press to the show. At least that's how I assume they see it; and from their perspective, I suppose I can't really blame them." She pauses briefly, then adds, "Viola says the award for Best Musical was just announced—we didn't win. I don't see how I could possibly be at fault for that, but I'm sure I'll end up being the scapegoat regardless."

Finn sighs heavily, now making his way through the parking lot outside Kurt's building. "Rach, I'm so sorry...I just, I wish you wouldn't have—"

"No," she stops him. "I don't regret what I did, Finn, regardless of who's turned against me. I was more than generous to Artie in my speech, I made sure he got his due credit. And he should've seen this coming—the truth was staring him in the face all along, he just saw things as he wanted them. And as for Jesse, if he thought I'd speak kindly of him after he forced that detestable kiss on me, well, he has a lot to learn about adult relationships that aren't scripted."

"Rach, you know I'm going to kill him, right? Like I'm actually going to make him regret the day he decided it was a good idea to be born."

"I'm afraid that's going to have to wait," she sighs. "He apparently stormed out of the theatre immediately after my speech. I don't doubt he already spoke with the media, and God only knows what he said about me. Viola thinks I should hire a publicist...although I imagine the damage has already been done."

"Well, then fuck it!" Finn exclaims. "I mean, I'm sorry, I hate that this is happening, but anyone talking shit about you doesn't know shit about you, or about us, and they're not going to stop you from doing amazing things, Rachel."

"I know, Finn. I know that now."

"I mean, God, a little bad media karma isn't going to stop you from winning like, a billion more Tony's!"

"No, no, I don't believe it will."

"Just don't worry, Rach. Seriously, don't worry about a thing."

"I'm not. I'm agreeing with you, Finn."

He feels himself relax a little, a soft smile tugging at his lips. "Okay. Good."

"That is, assuming I make it out of here alive…"

"You will. Just stay put."

"Don't have much choice," she agrees with a sigh. A beat of silence passes before she asks, "Wait, Finn, where are you anyway? I thought you were at Kurt's, but it sounds like you're alone."

"I am," Finn confirms, his foot pressing down on the accelerator. He's grateful that the roads are clear, well, as clear as one of the busiest roads in America could possibly be. Kurt was right, a cab would've done him no good, and would likely just now be arriving. Thanks to Kurt, he's already halfway there.

"Finn?" Rachel questions him again.

"Like I said, Rach, just stay put."

"Wait...Finn, are you—are you on your way?"

"I'm well on my way, babe. Well on my way."

* * *

 **TBC...**


	16. Everywhere

**Final chapter here (finale begins at Chapter 14). If there was a mash-up of Lana Del Rey's "Love" and Lea Michele's "Getaway Car" that would just about nail the mood I had in mind for these last few segments.**

 **A/N #2: So I just noticed a horrific typo towards the end of this chapter. Literally Finn stops talking mid-sentence - good grief! Sorry for the confusion. It's fixed now, although it's probably too late lol.**

* * *

Of course the minute Finn reaches the city he regrets not taking a cab to get there. Now he remembers why he's never bothered owning a car in all his years as a New Yorker; no matter what hour of the day, morning, noon, or night, it was _always_ a bitch trying to find a parking spot anywhere near his destination. Finn's only trying to get to _Radio City Musical Hall_ , of all places, and, well, maybe he should've thought this through.

Not that there was really anything for him to "think through." He wouldn't have had the time for it anyhow. He has no game plan, no strategy. No none of that. It's all spur of the moment, all scatterbrained, all crazy. All of that good stuff, but man, this thing he's about to do sure would be a whole lot easier if he could just hop out of the car right now, right here in the middle of traffic. He can't abandon Kurt's car, obviously, and that's why taking a cab would've been a far better option. _Dammit Kurt!_ He's basically a prisoner inside this thing! Granted it's a prison with leather interior, but still—he wants _out_.

As he's circling the block for the third straight time, he briefly considers speeding over to Sylvester & Shuester and parking in the private lot beneath the building. He doesn't have his employee I.D. on him, but the attendant would most likely recognize him and let him in. He immediately sees the flaw in that plan, however; it's the _worst_ idea ever, actually, worse than leaving Kurt's car stranded in the middle of a busy street. After all, what good is a getaway car that's parked half a mile away? _No good, Finn. No good at all._

He huffs loudly in frustration, craning the wheel to point the car back East toward Radio City. He's not circling another time. No more fruitless searching for the elusive parking spot nearby. It's time to get crazy; or _crazier_. It's time to bribe one of the valet guys to hold Kurt's car for him while he—wait a second...no wait, that can't possibly be—

" _Puck?_ " he gapes through the windshield at what he would _swear_ was his best friend looming up ahead. He's standing near the valet entrance, his unmistakable mohawk and signature badassness giving him away. From what Finn can see, he's dressed like a valet guy—bright red vest and all. Finn knows there's absolutely _no chance_ Puck was actually hired to wear that red vest here tonight. He's not sure he'd even trust Puck to drive a car without wrecking it, and, well, he can only hope he's wrong about that.

Puck looks only mildly surprised to see him when he stops at the curb, tires screeching. "Finally," Puck mutters.

"What do you mean _finally?_ " Finn snaps through the open window. "Were you waiting for me? How the fuck was I supposed to know you were even here?"

"Well I texted you about fifteen fucking times—so there's _that_. Also, who said I was waiting for you? I mean, _I am_ , sort of, but I'm mainly waiting to pounce on that Jesse kid when he walks out."

"Jesse?"

"Yeah. I saw him force that tonsil-tonguing kiss on your girl and I figured I'd make him pay. I should've just took care of him the first time you asked me to. That guy's beat-down is so overdue I'm thinking about charging him a late fee."

"Fine, do it. I mean, _maybe_ do it—later, but not now," Finn orders, opening the driver's side door and hopping out with the car still running. "Right now I need you to hold Kurt's car for me. I shouldn't be too long, just circle the block a few times and _don't hit anything_. Also, I need you to be here, right here, when we come out. Can you do that?"

"Sure, easy enough," Puck shrugs. "But if I see a hot theatre broad who looks like she needs a lift, I can't promise not to pick her up. That's the reason they call it Broad-way, isn't it?"

Finn groans. "Look, just don't pick anybody up, okay? Can you not?"

"Fine, promise," Puck agrees, climbing in behind the wheel.

"Great. _Thank you_. I just—I'll make it up to you later, I swear. Also, what's with the valet outfit? Did you bribe one of the guys into giving you his vest?"

"Yeah, I guess," Puck shrugs again. "I told the kid to gimme his vest and I wouldn't beat his ass. That was the bribe."

"Wonderful," Finn mutters. Despite Puck's schoolyard bully tactics, his friend has somehow managed to come through for him at the most opportune time. Thank God, or else he'd have likely resorted to similar tactics in an effort to get to Rachel. "Alright, I gotta go. I'll see you soon—like, sooner than soon, okay?"

"Got it, now go get her," Puck orders. He speeds away from the curb, his driving doing little to reassure Finn that the car will actually be in one piece when it returns; but as long as at least two of the wheels are still attached, he figures they'll make it out okay. And then Kurt can kill him later.

As expected, there's a massive security detail guarding the front entrance. With the award show well underway there aren't any guests coming in at the moment. Not that Finn's a _guest_ ; he wasn't invited, he reflects bitterly, and knows that getting past these human barriers is going to be his main obstacle of the night.

"Hi, good evening," Finn greets the burly, bald-headed guard at the door.

The guard only grunts in reply, shaking his head as if to say, "Don't even bother, pal."

"Look, sir, I know this is going to sound phony—"

"It already does," the guard mutters.

"I'm sure, I'm sure it does. But look, I can prove to you right now that I have a close connection to Rachel Berry—"

"Oh _of course_ you do," he scoffs with a roll of his eyes. He cranes his thick neck and yells over to a different guard nearby, "Hey Bruce, we got another one!"

"Another one?" Finn's brow kits in confusion.

"You're not the only screwball claiming to be Rachel Berry's mystery man," the guard deadpans.

So apparently security has already encountered multiple weirdos trying to pass themselves off as Rachel's beau. It was bound happen, Finn guesses, although he can't keep from shuddering at the thought.

"Look, I swear to you that I am not a screwball. I'm Finn Hudson, the guy Rachel named in her speech. I can show you my driver's license and everything," Finn insists, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his wallet.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," the guard warns.

Finn throws up his hands obediently, not wanting to set off any alarm bells. "I don't want any trouble," he persists, speaking delicately. "If you'll just let me get out my wallet, I can prove that I'm Finn Hudson. I can even call Rachel right now—she'll answer and she'll tell you. She'll tell you I'm the guy."

The guard eyes him skeptically for a moment. If it were any other night, Finn imagines he could've been convinced. But not tonight; tonight the guard looked as if he simply didn't _feel_ like being convinced of anything. Or maybe he was just sick and tired of guys claiming to be "the guy." He couldn't be bothered to take a chance on one more.

"Nice try, Romeo," he condescends. "But I'm not buyin' it. It seems to me that if Rachel Berry were expecting you, she would've called _us_ first."

Damn. The guard got him there. Finn _really_ should've planned this out before springing into action. He should've brought a better bag of tricks. He just didn't think, because there wasn't any time. _Sure, Hudson, blame it on the time. When do you EVER think?_

His mind races, grappling for any possible case he can make for himself before the guards toss him to the curb. Out of his peripheral vision he sees one of the double doors crack open.

"Hey, excuse me, do you guys know where I could smoke a cig— _Hudson_?"

Finn's eyes flicker left, locking on to the familiar face gaping back at him in confusion. "Sam!" he exclaims, relief rushing over him at the sight of his former client.

"Wait, you two know each other?" the guard questions, his eyes shifting from the tuxedo-clad football star to Finn, who's still holding his hands up, palms facing outward like an old-fashioned stick-up.

"Uh, yeah...Finn used to be my agent, actually," Sam clarifies, obviously a bit wary of how to proceed.

"No shit?" the guard muses, his gruff voice hitting a lighter note now with this new revelation. "You can, uh, drop your hands now."

Finn does, his eyes on Sam, who lingers awkwardly in the open doorway.

"You wanna smoke, you can do it out here," the guard tells the blonde quarterback. "Just watch yourself, Evans. The Raiders don't need you messing up your lungs in the off-season."

"Right…" Sam agrees, not stepping out onto the walkway, and instead pulling his weight back as his eyes find Finn's. "Uh, actually, maybe Finn and I could talk inside? My wife'll kill me if she finds me out here smoking."

"Talk? You mean like talk business?" the guard inquires, his suspicions lowered as such that he's now more of an intrigued sports fan than a dubious security professional.

"Yeah, yeah, that's it," Sam confirms, nodding pragmatically at Finn. Finn nods in return, not allowing himself to breathe easy until he's safely on the other side of those doors.

Fortunately the guard doesn't need any more convincing, happy to help facilitate a meeting between two sports professionals. Shallow as it is, Finn throws up a silent prayer in gratitude for the career path he chose; it's clearly his ticket to charming his way past the big guys, and at the most opportune times.

"Well, have at it, boys. Sorry for giving you such a hard time," the guard apologizes, stepping aside to let Finn pass through the doors he'd stood staunchly in front of just three minute before.

Finn releases the breath he's been holding, his eyes raking over the grand lobby area that greets him. He'll have to study the intricate details some other time—like, when he plans on sticking around longer than a few minutes.

He turns to Sam, the blonde shuffling stiffly by his side. "Thanks for helping me out, man. You really saved me."

"Uh, yeah, well I figure it's the least I can do—don't you think?" Sam asks, his tone thick with implications.

Finn realizes it's their first time seeing one another since Sam's opting out of the contract Finn had spent months trying to secure. Little did Sam know he'd saved Finn's ass in more ways than one; but from _Sam's_ perspective, as well as the rest of the world's, he'd just screwed Finn out of a multi-million dollar deal, and dropped a bombshell no one saw coming.

"You've got a point," Finn agrees, deciding now's the perfect time to play up the angle of Sam owing him _big_. "In fact, it'd be cool if you could do me another solid."

"Um...y-yeah, sure thing, Hudson. You name it."

"I need you to help me get backstage."

"Backstage? Uh, well I'd like to help you out, bro, but I don't actually have access. Besides, Mercedes'll kill me if I'm not back in my seat before the ceremony ends. She's already pissed about the show not winning a Tony."

Finn narrows his eyes at the blonde as he tries to appear affronted. "Well, I imagine a little California sun oughtta cheer her up. Not to mention that sixteen million dollar deal you're about to sign with The Raiders."

Sam stiffens uncomfortably, Finn's point taken.

"Besides, if the security guards backstage are anything like the ones out front you should have no problem charming your way through this place," Finn continues.

"Right. Well, c'mon then, I'll see what I can do," Sam obliges.

He gestures for Finn to follow, which he does, slightly ashamed to be manipulating the blonde's guilty conscience and gullible nature. One of these days he'll let Sam know he's not the bad guy; that his spontaneity and devotion to his wife actually kept Finn out of jail. _Literally_. For now, though, he'll take advantage of the position he has him in, laying the guilt on thick.

The meaty guard already fixated on Sam with starstruck eyes as they approach. Sam won't even have to turn on the charm, Finn guesses; they're already in good with the security guards here tonight, most of them likely to recognize an NFL quarterback over some of the biggest names in Broadway.

Sam barely utters a greeting before a petite older woman comes barreling through, brushing past the guard with no apologies. She stops just short of smacking straight into Finn, her frantic eyes seeming to soften in recognition and then narrow in frustration.

"You! You're Finn Hudson!" she accuses, Finn nearly shrinking away in fear of the finger she points at him.

"I...uh...yes?" he stammers a guess, unsure of whether he should be Finn Hudson right now or not. From the looks of this intimidating little woman it'd be better if he were somebody else entirely.

"Yes, of course you are, Rachel showed me your picture. Come on!"

She grabs his wrist, her vice grip and slight weight somehow yanking him forward, past the security guard who doesn't dare question the woman.

Sam's already long gone from his line of sight before he can even utter a word of thanks over his shoulder.

He's still a bit blindsided as he struggles to match the woman's stride, his heels skidding on the carpet as she pulls him straight through the dimly-lit hall.

"You know you could've answered your phone," she scolds him over her shoulder.

"I—what—" he nearly trips over himself as he fishes his phone from his hip pocket, "—Shit!" he groans at the multiple missed calls from Rachel. He'd had his hands up in the air, pleading his case to security while his phone rang silently in his pocket.

"It's fine," she reassures him, not convincing Finn in the least.

She swings a hard left, pulling Finn into what is clearly a press room. It's just as suffocating the ones he's seen on TV. The room is too small, and there's too many people asking too many questions, all of which they felt entitled to know the answers to. In this case, the celebrity getting raked over the coals is Rachel.

Even Finn has to stand on his tip-toes just to see over the fully extended arms of journalists snapping photos like Rachel's an extraterrestrial creature making her planetary debut.

 _"Miss Berry, what can you tell us about this Finn Hudson fellow?"_

 _"Miss Berry, was your decision to snub Jesse personal or professional?"_

 _"Hey Berry, so does this mean you and St. James are through?"_

The questions overlap each other, not allowing Rachel the space to give her answer to a single one. She looks like she's given up trying, her face frozen in overwhelment, her eyes wide as a deer in headlights. It's nothing short of a free for all, the press eating her alive, just as Finn expected they would.

"Goddamn, this girl needs a manager," the woman muses, shaking her head at the carnage they're both observing from the back of the room.

Finn glances down at her, thinking vaguely that her shrewd tactics and domineering presence might make her just the right candidate for the job.

Suddenly the woman's head snaps to look at him, her eyebrows raised in expectation. "Well, are you going to help her out, or what?" she interrogates. "That's what you came here to do, isn't it?"

"It is," he nods without hesitation. He doesn't know if she actually pushes him forward, or if her impatience lights a fire under his ass and gets him moving; whatever the case, he's now lunging his way through the crowd, with no apologies to the savages taking an elbow square to the face.

Rachel's eyes have already found his, relief washing over her face by the time he's wrestled his way to the front. A smile tugs at his lips as others take notice of his foreign appearance. He has no credentials, no camera, no notepad—and Rachel looks more elated to see him than if Barbra Streisand herself had just jetted in to her rescue.

Eyes are wide, pencils are frantically scribbling as he feels the cameras turn on him. Then back on Rachel. Then back on him again, and now the burning questions are firing.

He has a burning question as well, one he already knows the answer to. He asks it anyway, the commotion simmering at a dull roar as his voice booms above it.

"Rachel Berry?" he demands, his eyes winking at hers, their smiles sharing a secret that's all their own. Rachel gives a slight nod for him to proceed with his probing question. "Is it true that Finn Hudson loves you more than all the stars on Broadway?"

The curiously pointed question drops a bomb of realization upon the peanut gallery. For the first time they actually hold their tongues in silent anticipation of what Rachel is about to say.

And Rachel can't help but seize the moment, indulging in the drama of holding her audience captive for the second time tonight. "Why yes, yes that is true," she finally answers, her heart projecting a powerful stream of affection focused singularly toward Finn.

Finn's heart projects the same, love seeping through his pores as he takes her outstretched hand, then takes one giant step up onto the elevated platform beside her. Rachel beams at him through her misty eyes before pulling him in for a kiss.

Instead of eliciting an "aww" from their audience of gawking press people, it sends them into a frenzy even more ravenous than before. Cameras flash, interrogations of how, when, and why (because now they know _who_ ) fire at the happy couple, puncturing their bubble of bliss.

Meanwhile security was apparently too busy fanboying over Sam Evans to bother tending to the near-riotous situation unfolding.

"Finn, what do we do?" Rachel murmurs, clutching her Tony in one hand, the lapels of his jacket in the other.

"I...let's just…" he stammers, shellshocked as he attempts to shield his eyes from the blinding flashbulbs. It's questionable whether he'll still have corneas after all this is over; still, he moves his hand over to protect Rachel's eyes instead of his own, squinting at the chaos closing in on them.

"Finn, the door," he barely hears Rachel say.

 _The door? Right, the door! Doors are typically how you go about getting the fuck out of places._

But after whipping his head from left to right, finding nothing but sealed-in plaster wall on either side, he realizes the only door in the room is the one he came through when he got here. It's clear on the other end of the room, practically an ocean away from where he and Rachel stand frozen in captivity.

Fuck, the press rooms at Radio City _clearly_ weren't designed for media ambushes. Or at least they weren't designed in favor of the celebrity trying to escape.

From down below he feels a hand grab his ankle, his first instinct being to shake himself free, flinging whoever it is into infinity. He holds back from doing exactly that, recognizing the stern-faced woman who dragged him in here. She looks thoroughly ravaged, hair mussed, chest heaving now that she's managed to claw her way through the masses.

"Viola! Help us!" Rachel pleads.

But first, Finn helps the frazzled woman, pulling her up onto the platform beside them.

Viola breaths to steady herself, looking as if she's just been pulled from a pack of wild monkeys. "Do either of you have a stun gun?" she deadpans, her weary eyes flicking from Finn to Rachel.

All they can do is gape at her helplessly before turning to face the sea of vultures between them and the exit. With no help from security, they were just going to have to wrestle their way through...and then sue the pants off anyone who bruised a hair on Rachel's head.

"Finn, we have to—"

"I know, Rach, let's go. Just stay close to me, okay?"

"I will. I'll be fine."

Before turning to descend the steps, they both cast a questioning look at Viola. Was she coming with them? Her expression screams "hello no." The chaos was obviously going with the two of them, and so she was staying put. Neither could blame her.

Finn grips Rachel's hand tightly, their eyes meeting in reassurance as they prepare to dive in.

"Rachel! Make sure you hang onto your Tony!" Viola calls from the platform.

Rachel acknowledges the older woman with a firm nod, cradling her award like precious cargo. Finn knows they'd have to pry it from her vice-like grip, and actually pities any fool who'd dare try.

As expected, the media swarms them as soon as they step off the platform. There's no clear path for them to walk, and so they just _move_ as the media moves with them. Finn's fully prepared to drop-kick the next person who elbows him in the eye—he also figures it'd be best if this night ends quickly, and with as little bloodshed as possible. Besides, his main priority is Rachel, who thankfully still has all her limbs in tact, her eyes beaming with triumph once they've made it safely out the door.

Of course they've yet to throw the vultures off their scent. They're now more aggressive than ever as the frenzy follows them out into the hall, the narrow confines making things all the more suffocating and barbaric. Several photographers scurry around to the front, now backwards-walking with their cameras poised.

Finn holds tight to Rachel as he barrels through, channelling his high school football days (but not too much, otherwise he'd have already tackled every one of these bastards to the ground). He feels some resistance from Rachel as he pulls her along, his head whipping back to see what the hold up is.

"Finn, my dress! I can't—they're stepping on my— _move your foot, you inbred baboon!_ " Rachel growls, shooting daggers at the journalist practically wiping his feet on the long train of her designer gown. He shuffles aside, not before snapping a photo of her winning expression.

Rachel huffs loudly in disgust, hurling her body forward to face Finn, her eyes making a silent plea for him to get them out of here before she throws a diva fit memorable enough to haunt them for the next twenty years.

Finn obliges, resorting to linebacker tactics as he resumes powering them toward the exit at the end of the hall. It's no good, as ruthless footsteps in hot pursuit continue stomping on Rachel's dress, threatening to put a rip right through the exotic fabric. They're ripping his girl to shreds, body and soul, and he can practically hear Kurt screaming for him to save the dress, save it before the heavens open up and the fashion Gods cry.

He whips toward Rachel, her wide eyes already urging him to do— _something!_ Do everything crazier than he's doing right now! So he does, picking her up and throwing her over his shoulder caveman-style. The gesture hardly feels out of place, given the primal, barbaric whirlwind he and Rachel are escaping.

Finn steamrolls the rest of the way, and even the Page Sixer barring the door stands paralyzed in awe of the sight coming straight at him.

"Move out before I _take_ you out!" Finn warns, his voice hitting a note so ferocious that it actually compels the gossip monger into an act of subservience. Instead of cowering away from the door, he holds it open wide as though he were a hired help. Finn never flinches, moving straight through it with a sheer momentum that knocks the "journalist" flat on his ass. He never even gets a photo of the night's most memorable scene.

Thank God security seems to actually have control over the paparazzi waiting outside the back exit. Their cameras still flash wildly, feasting on the money shot: a handsome man fleeing The Tony Awards with the night's most buzzed-about actress flung over his shoulder.

Some would later speculate that the stunt had been planned all along. It certainly _was_ a whimsically grand way for Rachel Berry to make her exit.

In the moment, however, security was concerned that an actual kidnapping was taking place.

"Excuse me, Ms. Berry, do you know this young man?" one security guard stepped in front of Finn's path.

"Yes!" an upside-down Rachel confirmed. "Please move!"

"Yeah. Move," Finn echoes gruffly, pushing past the guard and making a beeline for the curb at the end of 3rd Avenue. He exhales in relief when he sees Kurt's car parked right where he requested, Puck "the valet guy" standing with his back up against the side door.

Finn quickens his pace, glancing over his shoulder to see if there's anyone on their heels—there isn't, thankfully, although the dam could break at any moment. His elbows are still locked just underneath Rachel's sparkly rear end when he hears her muffled voice pleading with him.

"Finn, could you—I can't—the blood's rushing—"

" _Oh shit!_ " he exclaims. He gently brings her tiny body forward, placing her back on her feet. She still looks every bit like the star she was born to be, dress disheveled, hair falling loose, and Tony Award clutched safely between her engagement-ringless fingers.

"Now what?" she asks, her eyes wide, chest heaving as she adjusts to being right-side-up again.

"Straight ahead," Finn answers with a nod toward the curb where Puck and their getaway car are waiting.

Rachel pivots toward Puck, relief falling on her like a boulder despite not knowing why he's dressed like a valet guy, or whose car that even is. If he were dressed in a chicken suit she and Finn would've still sprinted toward him like their holy grail.

They make a run for it, Rachel holding the long train of her dress off the ground in one hand—the same hand gripping her Tony—and holding Finn's in the other.

Puck smirks as they approach, moving to pull the passenger's side door open for Rachel climb right in. She does, Finn hustling around to the driver's side.

"You sure know how to make a dramatic as fuck exit, Berry," Puck says as Rachel hurriedly fumbles with her seatbelt. "And congrats, by the way."

"Thank you, Noah," Rachel pants. "I assure you your act of chivalry will be rewarded."

"Nah, it's cool," he dismisses. "I already hooked up with that April Rhodes chick while you guys were inside. I'd say we're even."

Rachel's jaw falls open. "Wait, y-you hooked up with _April Rhodes_? When did you even—"

"Dude, you hooked up with someone in Kurt's car?" Finn scolds from the driver's seat. "That wasn't cool, man. Plus, there's like security cameras all around this place."

Puck gives both of them a pointed look, his eyebrows lifting in disbelief. "Seriously Finchel? You're one to talk."

Puck slams the door on the two blushing, gaping faces, then sends them off on their journey into the night.

* * *

Their adrenaline has subsided now that they're a good twenty miles outside the city. Finn speeds along a deserted highway, going nowhere in particular. Going just to go. They ride in silence, Rachel's Tony on top of the dashboard, her bare feet propped up beside it. She'd flung her shoes off as he'd darted and dodged throughout those Manhattan streets, vowing never to wear designer heels again. Finn smirks, knowing she'll break that vow before the week is up...either that, or they'll have a barefoot wedding.

Someday.

He feels her eyes on him and reaches to lace their fingers on top of the center console, keeping his own eyes on the road. _Their_ road, free and unfolding.

"Do you know where you want to go, Rach?" he asks softly.

"I do."

"Where?"

"Everywhere. With you."

* * *

 **THE END.**

 **Thank you so much for going on this journey with me. I guess I'm slightly embarrassed of this story and might not have finished it if it weren't for the 100+ followers. That's not to say that it was a burden to write, however, and it's always a pleasure getting to share these Finchel escapades with you guys.**

 **There are a lot of components to this story that I DO love, and I'm glad Finn and Rachel got to ride off into the sunset together. I like to think that somewhere in an alternate universe they're doing exactly that :)**


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